


Endgame

by breathtaken



Series: All of Us [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Era, M/M, Multi, Paranoia, Polyamory, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In daring to be content he has forgotten himself, and the lessons of his past. That every feeling one might call happiness is fragile, temporary; what little it takes for everything he's so carefully built to crumble around him in moments and leave him standing, gasping in a cloud of dust, exposed to the biting winds. [...]</p><p>And at the centre of it, <i>Anne</i>: with motivations unknown, dissolving order and sanctuary with a single breath from her lips, just as she had five years ago."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pawns

**Author's Note:**

> The full work contains spoilers for Episodes 1x07 through to 1x10.
> 
> Content warnings: anxiety attacks, paranoia, canon levels of alcohol abuse and alcoholism.

#### Paris; June 1630

Athos shrugs his jacket off, the evening breeze immediately refreshing through his thin shirt, counterbalancing the warm flush of wine under his skin. He rolls his shoulders appreciatively, feeling looser, freer, and for a moment considers joining in.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan are sparring – or at least they were, but it seems to have degenerated into some sort of freeform wrestling, them having abandoned all pretence of using weaponry several minutes before. Horsing around, he might call it, something joyful and uninhibited in d'Artagnan's body language that reminds him of Tom, though they hardly resemble each other.

_Gone before his time._

He takes another swig from the bottle, trying to dull the sudden stab of pain to his chest. This has been a good day, and he wants to enjoy it to the end.

He drops his discarded jacket on top of his brothers' – it seems almost poetic for a moment, the wine must be going to his head – before climbing up onto the fence bordering the sparring paddock, resuming his vigilance. While there's almost nobody around this late, his lovers are nothing if not high-spirited, and it falls to him to make sure they all stay on the right side of publicly appropriate.

Free hand curling round the wood, he watches Aramis and Porthos tackle d'Artagnan to the floor in a perfectly-timed movement borne of more than a decade of fighting side by side, against which their young apprentice has no defence. Their bodies send up a cloud of dust, glittering gold where it catches the sun's last rays over the garrison walls, unexpectedly beautiful.

Athos swallows the lump that's lodged in his throat, gripping the fencing tightly for support as he's suddenly overwhelmed with the sense of being utterly _present_ , more acutely than he remembers feeling it since Tom died. He breathes deeply, once, twice, concentrates on grounding himself; feeling the wood grain under his fingertips, his heels locked against the bar of the fence, the faint heat of the setting sun on his back.

Even after all this time, the urge to run is occasionally still so strong that it takes him a moment to remember he doesn't actually want to be alone at all.

When the dust clears, he sees that Aramis and Porthos have rolled d'Artagnan onto his front, Porthos with a knee in his back and Aramis sitting on his legs, and they're tickling him mercilessly. His peals of laughter ring out around the garrison walls.

Of _course_ d'Artagnan is ticklish.

"Gentlemen!" Athos calls out in gentle admonishment, even though part of him wants nothing more than to allow them to continue. "That would hardly be appropriate in a fight."

They let d'Artagnan go – a little reluctantly, it appears, and Athos senses that he's made the right decision if he doesn't want this to escalate into something more than is prudent.

"You're no fun," Aramis replies mock-petulantly, getting up and shielding his eyes from the glare of the low sun.

Athos vaults neatly from the fence and scoops up the pile of leather, before striding over to the centre of the paddock. "Everything has its limits," he replies softly as he hands out their jackets; and after a moment, Aramis nods his understanding.

Porthos stands, brushing the dust from his leathers, before offering a hand and pulling d'Artagnan to his feet; and Athos thinks fondly for a second that the glow in the young man's expression is a sight to see, before immediately wondering when he became the sort of man who thinks fondly of anything.

The four of them are standing in a loose circle, the tension between them shimmering in the evening air like heat over water; and he wonders who will move first.

It's Porthos, this time, who shoves his hands in his pockets, affecting nonchalance. "I vote we retire for the evening."

"Dinner first, surely," Athos objects immediately – but it isn't a no, and he knows by their expressions that he's given himself away.

"I don't think I could eat right now," d'Artagnan confesses, face still flushed and chest heaving from having the wind knocked out of him; and an image comes unbidden to Athos' mind of d'Artagnan similarly flushed and gasping, lithe body bare against cool white sheets, and he decides that this evening he wants to fuck him.

It's not often he actively _wants_ , at least when it comes to taking his own pleasure, though he's become the one of them who most often calls the shots. But there's a bead of sweat rolling enticingly down the line of d'Artagnan's neck, and right now he doesn't see any reason to deny himself.

"Let me take you to bed, then," he says, offering d'Artagnan his arm on a whim, and letting the corner of his mouth curl at the surprise and approval on the other two's faces.

"Don't mind if I do," d'Artagnan positively beams in response, hand coming to rest in the crook of Athos' elbow as they walk together through the garrison gate, and in the direction of Aramis' lodgings.

* * *

If asked to give a name to his habits, Athos would call himself an _accomplished_ drunk; and he knows all the phases of inebriation intimately. Every one a well-trodden step, from the sheer relief of the first bottle as he comes off duty to the weighty, numbing mantle of lethargy that leads him into sleep; through the period of lucidity, towards the end of the second bottle, when the clamour in his head finally quiets enough for him to focus, as all the worry and second-guessing is dampened, as if behind a closing door.

It's sometimes a blessing; other times not.

Since d'Artagnan, though, he's been better. Calmer, at least by degrees.

He doesn't know what's caused it. D'Artagnan's youth and inexperience, perhaps, and clear need for a guiding hand. His hot-headedness and idealistic honour, a perfect foil for Athos' own cynicism. The ingenuousness and simplicity of his desire.

When the four of them are together, sometimes even _she_ seems like a distant dream.

D'Artagnan came to them with cup held aloft, and Athos has drunk of it gladly, finding intoxication of a different kind; and since d'Artagnan's been in their bed, Athos hasn't once felt uncertain of his own place there.

He's learning to live with it, slowly.

* * *

But it's only a matter of days before he realises his mistake: in daring to be content he has forgotten himself, and the lessons of his past. That every feeling one might call happiness is fragile, temporary; what little it takes for everything he's so carefully built to crumble around him in moments and leave him standing, gasping in a cloud of dust, exposed to the biting winds.

A young girl dead. Ninon, clever, interesting, and undeniably beautiful, stripped of everything she had, only just escaping with her life.

And at the centre of it, _Anne_ : with motivations unknown, dissolving order and sanctuary with a single breath from her lips, just as she had five years ago.

Athos is still that man, and not; he is a soldier now, and this is how he knows himself, how he keeps on as long as there are questions that need answering, hope that Ninon might yet be saved.

But once that sickening deal is struck, once it's truly over (for now, at least; he knows in his chilled heart that for him, it's only just beginning), he rides back to the city as hard as he dares, strides through the bustling streets so fast he's almost running, head down, shoulders hunched in a futile attempt to blend into the throng, to go unseen.

He sees her in every dark-haired woman he passes.

It feels as though something in him is fracturing with every step he takes, every jostle from a rude shoulder or elbow; coming steadily apart at the seams, until his uniform is all that holds him together.

All he sees is that look she gave him as she passed by, as Tréville and Aramis held him back: that secret, knowing look.

 _What_ _does she know? What has she seen?_

A head of dark, curling hair as he rounds the corner, a green dress, the woman suddenly turning away; and it's her, it _has_ to be –

He needs to get off the streets.

Luckily he's only round the corner from his lodgings; and he takes the stairs two at a time, fumbling with his key in the door, nearly dropping it before finally getting it in the lock and forcing it round.

Inside, he locks the door and bolts it before half-collapsing onto the bed, reaching underneath and groping around for a bottle, pulling the cork out with his teeth, with such force it hurts, before raising the neck to his lips at last.

 _Drink_ , he thinks, gulping the liquid back. _Drink. Breathe. Breathe. Drink._

_Don't shake, she might see._

It's hot in here – too hot, and stuffy – and he's drenched under his doublet, but doesn't move even to unbutton it, doesn't dare. It's ridiculous, he knows, but he really feels as though he might fall apart if he does.

_How long has she been watching?_

He closes the shutters.

He crosses his arm over his chest; traces the symbol on his pauldron, mapping the edges of the embossed petals.

He imagines smudging it with his fingers, the shape bleeding out until all definition is lost.

He drops his hand.

 _What is she_ doing _here?_

He can't think straight.

He reaches for another bottle.

Anne. His wife, alive, and this time undeniable.

After La Fère, it had been so easy to believe her an apparition, a figment of his own drunken imagination. He'd blacked out, and there are whole hours he doesn’t remember. He could easily have tried to light a candle and set the drapes aflame, could have fallen and hit his own head.

When he'd walked across that threshold it was into a waking nightmare, and seeing her there made perfect sense.

Never mind what she'd told him, all the details so plausible. Never mind that Rémy had turned up dead that same afternoon. Never mind that her dagger against his throat had felt real enough.

So much easier, to tell himself it hadn't really happened, because how to make sense of what he'd seen?

But this time, there's no escaping her.

His mind races: she was there at the trial, in the daylight. Not in Picardie at all, but in Paris, possibly for years. She has the protection of the Cardinal, Ninon said; and suddenly he can see her hand everywhere, in every botched mission, every attempt to discredit him or his company.

Every time he's felt suddenly on edge, unsafe for no reason at all.

That prickling on the back of his neck, the feeling of unseen eyes on him, his innermost thoughts exposed, to be used against him, to bring about his ruin. Darkness and drink the only things keeping it – keeping _her_ – at bay.

For the first time since he shut up the windows at La Fère all those years ago, he wishes she'd fucking stayed dead after all.

He doesn't know how long it's been when a knock at the door makes him startle so much he drops the bottle – glass shattering at his feet, blood seeping into the floorboards.

_Not blood. Wine._

_It's bad, then_ , he realises, worse than it's been for a long time.

"Athos?"

It's Porthos' voice outside the door, alarmed.

"It's fine," he calls out, hoping that will be enough to make him go.

"Can I come in?"

 _No_.

He knows it's just Porthos, that Porthos is on his side – but he can't bear the idea of anyone looking at him right now, watching him. Seeing what he's become.

_What has she seen?_

Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan – and everything they've done together.

Pleasuring each other, hands and mouths and _buggery_ , maybe a hundred times.

Does she _know_ …?

He feels abruptly nauseous.

Impossible to tell, now, if they have been discreet.

Perhaps it's already too late.

"Athos?"

He can't let Porthos in now, he _can't_. If by some miracle she doesn't know, he has to keep it that way.

Though he's likely given her more than enough rope already to hang them all.

"I'm going to retire," he replies; and his voice is steady, at least. "I'll see you tomorrow."

A pause, and then, "Alright. Good night."

He holds himself still for a long moment until he finally hears the sound of retreating boots on the stairs.

He looks at the still-bolted door, at the thin strip of twilight between the closed shutters, the glittering shards of glass, the dark stain on the floor, slowly spreading; and _I can't sleep here_.

He puts his head in his hands, closes his eyes for a moment, as if by shutting out the scene before him he can stop it, stop everything.

It's humiliating that it's come to this, when he's been stronger than this for years; but he just can't shake the feeling of being watched.

He reaches under the bed for another bottle before standing and crossing the room, glass crunching under his footsteps, opening the door to the armoire and climbing inside, pulling the door to.

It's dark, close, cramped; slightly musty, but he doesn't mind that, never has.

He stretches out a tentative hand – yes, the rope he used to hold the door closed with is still there.

 _Safe_.

Dear God, he is pathetic.

He presses his cheek to the wood, and feels his breathing settle at last.

He must have passed out, because the next thing he knows there's light seeping through the seams of the doors, and he's spilled wine all down his shirt, pooling bloody at his crotch.

* * *

For the next few days he's on light duties – suspiciously light, although that could just be paranoia on his part. There are certainly enough idle Musketeers milling around, sparring or conversing, the clash of swords and loud laughter setting his teeth on edge.

He doesn't have to leave the garrison, at least, for which he's pathetically grateful. Being out on the streets is almost unbearable, every flash of dark hair making his heart pound and leap in his chest, every unexpected noise or movement in the corner of his eye someone following, watching from a window or round a corner. _Spying_.

Even within the garrison walls he feels constantly on edge, replying to every question in monosyllables; skin prickling so strongly it sometimes hurts, shifting his shoulders in circles, unable to get comfortable inside his clothes. His eyes scanning the courtyard over and over to see who's watching him, who knows where he spent the night, who can read his secrets in his face.

_Sodomy. Crimes against nature. Disgrace._

He keeps his doublet tightly buttoned, and Porthos does not ask why Athos wouldn't let him in. Neither he nor Aramis ask again who Madame de la Chappelle is.

He sees d'Artagnan shooting him the odd look, curious and concerned, until one of the other two distracts him. D'Artagnan hasn't seen him like this before, he supposes, doesn't understand what he's got himself into.

_Corrupting a new recruit._

If he claimed he'd coerced him, made him fear for his commission, then d'Artagnan might be spared the rope. It's probably the best he could hope for.

He finds he's grateful when the other three leave for the Louvre without him, and he's on guard duty with Saunier, who will not make him talk. He doesn't want their eyes on him, not after what he's brought into their lives.

That night he puts his blankets and pillow inside the armoire, and the self-loathing is so strong for a moment that he wonders if she hasn't beaten him already.

* * *

They come for him at night, five days later; and he buckles on his sword belt, puts on his hat, takes a moment to straighten his doublet before he opens the door. He will at least go with dignity to the gallows.

He's learnt enough sedition from Aramis over the years that he finds he truly believes this to be wrong. Though he does not much care for the man he is, he _is_ a good soldier, who should have many years of service still to give.

Instead he will make an infamous end, for practices he doesn't particularly regret. Not when he's done far worse in his time.

He will try and save d'Artagnan, if he is named too; and beyond that, he will not waste his breath.

When he unbolts, unlocks and at last opens the door, he is genuinely astonished not to find Tréville or even a group of Red Guards, ready to arrest him; but his brothers, who look similarly surprised to see him so thoroughly dressed, standing as tall as the day he was commissioned.

_Not today, then._

He almost wishes it _was_ , just to have it over with.

"Can we come in?" Porthos asks uncertainly, looking for all the world like he expects to be turned away again; and Athos isn't sure why he doesn't.

Weakness, probably, the persistent sliver of himself that doesn't care that it isn't safe for them to be here, that feels half a man without them.

They cross the threshold in silence and position themselves at the room's corners, and Athos sees it for the first time through someone else's eyes: the air sour and stuffy, an old pair of boots lying carelessly on his stripped bed, blankets nowhere in sight. Broken glass still on the floor, a new purple stain overlaying the old. He supposes he should have cleaned.

He pours them all wine, though mostly for his own benefit; clean cups the one thing he does still have. He can't remember the last time he drank from a cup.

He hands the drinks out himself, one by one, and the silence stretches out, though he can see d'Artagnan's itching to say something.

He notes for the first time the matching dark expressions, tension in the lines of their bodies. The distance between them, that nobody is sitting.

"This – has to stop," d'Artagnan blurts out, and three pairs of eyes look to him. "I'm in love with Constance."

"You've been in love with Constance for months," Aramis replies dismissively; before Athos sees his expression change, as they both interpret simultaneously the determined set of d'Artagnan's jaw, the glint in his eyes. "But now you're having an affair with her," he finishes flatly.

"We love each other," d'Artagnan replies defiantly – not bothering to confirm or deny the affair part, as if he needs to.

Athos drains his cup, then picks up the one he'd poured for d'Artagnan, where he's left it untouched on the windowsill, and drinks from that too, already clamping down on the instinct to be alone.

He's not surprised. It makes sense for d'Artagnan to choose a woman like Constance over a man like him. Like any of them.

"You do realise that we wouldn't expect you to be exclusively ours," Aramis continues, only the tightening of his fingers around the brim of his hat as he holds it to his chest betraying the depth of his feeling. "Even if you wanted to have a family."

"No, I –" d'Artagnan falters, "I couldn't deceive her like that. I wasn't expecting – well. I'm sorry if I've disappointed." He looks at Athos for a moment, eyes naked, and then at the floorboards.

Athos looks reflexively around. Porthos is hiding behind his own cup. Aramis meets Athos' gaze, with the frustrated expression he gets when he thinks one of them is shooting themselves in the foot. Athos knows _that_ expression all too well.

D'Artagnan is still looking at the stain on Athos' floor, eyes suspiciously bright; and Athos doesn't know if it's love or self-preservation, but he wants nothing more than to stop d'Artagnan looking at that – to look at _him_ , if he has to.

He clears his throat. "We – wouldn't have you beholden to us."

"I still consider you all my brothers…" d'Artagnan begins; but trails off, looking lost, and very young. The brightness in his eyes threatening to spill over.

Athos starts to reach out before he realises he's doing it.

He plonks his cup carelessly down on the sill and crosses to take d'Artagnan's hands in his. A glance at the others shows that there's something hard in Aramis' eyes that he doesn't like, and something soft in Porthos' which he likes no better.

"D'Artagnan. If you feel you need to walk away from this, we understand," Athos says, with a certainty which comes from nowhere, as if someone kinder and wiser is speaking with his voice. "Nothing else need change."

D'Artagnan looks at him and doesn't say anything for a moment.

"We called you brother, did we not?"

When there's still no response, he presses. "I told you that you would be our brother whether you bedded us or not. That remains the case, and I want to hear you acknowledge that you don't lose that."

D'Artagnan clears his throat. "I understand, and I appreciate it," he replies; not sounding entirely like himself yet, but Athos will take what he can get all the same. "My life is still yours."

"And mine is yours," Aramis replies, stepping forward to put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder; and the younger man leans into the touch for a split second before he remembers himself and straightens up again.

"'Course," Porthos says, coming to d'Artagnan's other side, and mirroring Aramis' gesture.

"Well then," Athos says, squeezing d'Artagnan's fingers ever so slightly before dropping his hands. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, I'm going to go."

Athos inclines his head. "Then I bid you good evening."

"Wait," Aramis says, turning d'Artagnan's shoulders to kiss him on the mouth; swift and sure, like always. " _Au revoir_ ," he murmurs. "If you change your mind you can always come back. Don't keep your distance."

Porthos follows suit, not saying a word; and d'Artagnan looks inevitably over to Athos.

Athos steps forward and kisses him, merely the softest press of lips, but a beat longer than it needs to be, his hands coming to d'Artagnan's face, stroking the stubble with his thumb. "You're always welcome here."

"Thank you," d'Artagnan replies as Athos releases him; then turns and strides abruptly away, the bang of the door on its hinges too loud in the sudden stillness.

Aramis sinks down on Athos' bed, sighing, Porthos joining him a second later.

"Bloody Gascons," Aramis remarks to no-one in particular, but pulls Porthos into him automatically.

Athos doesn't reply, just collects their cups in silence and pours more wine. He wonders for the first time if the other two are unhappy with him. _No_ , he tells himself, trying to beat the uncertainty away, he did what d'Artagnan needed, and you can't please everybody.

He hands the cups back down and sits on his bed next to Porthos, silently squeezing the other man's hand where it lies in his lap, hoping it will work as a substitute for the words he doesn't have right now.

Funny, that he should understand d'Artagnan so instinctively after such a short time, but Porthos and Aramis he still doesn't know how to comfort.

This should be their shared grief; and yet to him it's as if it's all happening far away, to someone else.

He doesn't know how long it's been when Aramis breaks the silence.

"Can we stay?"

The automatic _no_ dies in Athos' throat.

Is the danger real, or only in his head? He'd been so sure. And yet night after night, nobody comes for him.

"Providing you've got blankets, that is," Aramis continues, half-joking, half-puzzled; and Athos looks away, his face heating with shame as he realises where the blankets are, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, panic rising in his breast.

"I need you to leave now," he hears himself say, trying desperately to shut down the part of his mind that's chanting _they know, they know_ , she _knows, she's tightening the net_ –

"Athos –"

A hand on his back, and he reacts like a warrior, jerking away and twisting until Aramis' wrist is in his grip, until he realises what he's doing and drops his hand like he's been burnt.

"Forgive me, just – go. Please."

He tells himself he's not begging; doesn't know if he believes it.

He doesn't look up until the door has closed.

* * *

He would have expected to feel grief at being left by one of them, but he has no room for it. It's better this way, that d'Artagnan at least should be free of him, who will destroy everything he touches.

D'Artagnan is still young, can still find love; has so much more to lose.

He hopes he can stop Anne taking him down with him, at least, if he has to bear a disgrace that makes her previous attempts pale in comparison.

She can't have known, he realises finally, or she would have used it against him then. Far better than hiring a lackey to kill under his name, more devastating, more effective. There are no ex-lovers to testify, at least, but all it would take was a witness to see them _in flagrante_ and they would have all been ruined.

If by some miracle she still doesn't know, he must keep it that way.

D'Artagnan's quiet and subdued now; and Porthos and Aramis make a noticeable effort to involve him in everything, never leaving him an evening without a drink unless he begs off, turning to him constantly for his opinion. Their overtures careful, and the atmosphere strained.

Athos doesn't say much, never having been good at it; but he starts coming to the tavern again of an evening, and makes sure he sits beside d'Artagnan, trying not to treat the boy as if he's something that will shatter.

He can just about bear it, if he keeps his back against the wall.

Sometimes d'Artagnan catches his eye and then looks away, something small and sad in there, wounded. He's done what he wanted, but he's hurting.

Still, nobody can have everything they desire in this world. The three of them surely being proof of that.

They don't lie with each other; or he doesn't lie with Aramis and Porthos, at least, can't endanger them any more than he already has. She is still out there, plotting. Strategising.

 _The black queen_ , he thinks, and it's so fitting that he almost wants to laugh. He certainly feels trapped, cornered by moves of his own making.

He would like to think his brothers his knights; but will not ask them to leap for him, not until he can see all the pieces.

There will be an endgame eventually, he knows, but for now he tries not to think of it. There's no use speculating; he can only hope that he's ready when it comes.

Meanwhile, he's getting slowly better: sleeping in his bed again, though the shutters are still closed more often than not. He can hold his own in conversation again, though it often feels as though someone else is speaking. Sometimes it feels like there's nothing left of him at all, his leathers the mantle of his duty with nothing beneath them, where a man should be.

When he's alone, and isn't thinking of Anne, or Tom, he thinks of d'Artagnan. What turned out to be their last evening together has crystallised in his mind, imprinted on his memory. Only the second time he'd fucked him, and the first time with d'Artagnan on his back, bent nearly double with his legs braced against Athos' shoulders as he thrust in and out of him, as slow and measured as he could, every stroke precisely angled to brush over the bundle of nerves inside that made him howl and whimper. Porthos' hand on d'Artagnan's cock, Aramis kissing him, until Athos had said that he wanted to watch the boy's face as he came.

Aramis' hand had joined Porthos' on his cock, and d'Artagnan had groaned, shuddered and _keened_ , head falling back, sweat glistening on that beautiful throat as he held Athos' gaze with his dark eyes; and Athos had been unable to hold out any longer at the first shockwaves through his cock as d'Artagnan's body clenched around him, spilling into his body with an audible groan.

 _Beautiful_ , he had thought then, beautiful, and _what have I done to be worthy of this?_

To have had three lovers, and not think oneself worthy of one.

And to wonder whether any of them were worthy of d'Artagnan, really, and if d'Artagnan will understand that one day.


	2. Knights

#### Paris, June-August 1630

"You've not been coming around."

The words come out of nowhere, and take Athos enough by surprise that he almost flinches – _dear God_ , when did he get so jumpy? – and immediately wishes he'd had another drink before coming on duty.

He's been trying to drink a little less, thinking it might help somehow; but all it makes him feel is ungrounded, even further out of step with the world around him.

"No," he replies, not looking up. Hoping Porthos doesn't see the tension he can feel himself carrying in every muscle. "I haven't."

It's no answer at all really, and if this were Aramis he would be angry; but Athos can just about see enough of Porthos' expression to note that he doesn't seem surprised.

How long has he been standing here with his mind on his demons instead of his duty? What might he have missed?

He quickly scans the street below.

Nothing.

He suppresses a shiver.

Porthos has been beside him the entire time, though, and Porthos will always have his back.

_Porthos doesn’t know what to look for._

"Don't make it too long. We miss you."

_You do?_

The words rise up in his throat; and Athos swallows them back down.

He should be better than this by now.

He shifts his stance, grits his teeth against the pressure of a sudden yawn. He's near-roasting in his leathers, and he doesn't know how much sleep he had last night. Not nearly enough.

He resolves that the first thing he's going to do when he gets off duty is have a very large brandy.

Do _I miss them?_

He's not sure he knows.

It hardly matters. He has resolved to keep as much distance from them as he can, at least for now.

_Until I can see the whole board._

He's told himself it's safer for them if they don't know anything, but it has the convenient ring of falsehood about it.

And yet he still says nothing.

Well. He's never pretended he isn't weak.

There's nothing he wants to say in response, so he just nods shortly, eyes sweeping methodically over the streets beneath their feet. West to east, and west again, alert to any suspicious movements.

Like a head of dark hair, half-concealed behind a shutter, vanishing around a corner.

"Do you miss him?"

Porthos can only mean d'Artagnan; and Athos realises with a flush of sudden guilt that he hasn't even thought about how Aramis and Porthos might feel.  

While Aramis can handle himself, Porthos is their stalwart, who if they're not careful gets forgotten, even though he feels most deeply of them all. He deserves far more than the two of them, far more than Aramis' inconstancy and his own despondence; and yet Athos is a selfish man, and can't quite bring himself to regret any of it.

"In a way," he replies, gaze drifting to the horizon as he takes a moment to really consider his answer. He _does_ miss d'Artagnan, he thinks, the way a man living on scorched earth dreams of running water – though that doesn't mean he wants him back.

"I think he's made the right decision."

If d'Artagnan cannot divide his loyalties, only give his all, then far better for him to give it elsewhere.

"If he can be happy with her, he should be," Porthos replies simply, though not without feeling; and Athos remembers not for the first time (though he had no business forgetting) that Porthos has never loved a woman, and says he never will; and perhaps with him and Aramis, Porthos has actually found more than he had ever hoped for.

He presses a hand to Porthos' back in silent support, hoping to atone for his thoughtlessness through touch, if nothing else.

"He has that hope, at least," Athos says, trying for comforting; although as usual, his words are the exact opposite of what he intends.

He curses internally; but fortunately Porthos actually looks amused, knowing well enough by now what Athos is trying to say.

"I care about him," Porthos replies. "But we did alright before."

_And we will do again_ goes unsaid.

They both fall silent for a few moments, and Athos looks down into the streets again, though he's not really seeing them. Wondering, instead, if they _will_ be alright; wishing he could believe it.

"You should talk to Aramis," Porthos says suddenly, fiddling with something on his sword belt.

"I'm sure he's doing alright without me."

Porthos gives him a sideways look that's at once both annoyed and weary. "That's not what I meant."

Athos bites his lip against the small flush of shame in his breast, resisting the urge to just pretend Porthos hasn't spoken.

He's so consistently bad at this that he's starting to bore even himself.

"I'll talk to him," he replies, attention once more caught by the tight knot of alleys to the east, where what might be a grey dress and a head of dark curls flashes through the gap between two houses like a warning.

* * *

Athos isn't sure if it's the foreboding atmosphere of the dank alleyways leading to the Silent Court or the prospect of calling on Aramis that's making his lungs feel tight and his stomach hollow. Probably neither – it's probably the drink, or more accurately the lack of it – but it's ridiculous whatever it is, he tells himself firmly. Aramis is just as much a brother to him as Porthos and d'Artagnan are.

Yet he doesn't know what he's doing here; and a darkly pessimistic voice in his head reminds him of the few conversations he's had with Aramis over the years that have resembled nothing so closely as cleaning a wound.

But he gave Porthos his word, and so he's here. With a decent bottle of Anjou wine in one hand, that's intended as much as a peace offering as anything, though he doesn't know exactly what he feels the need to atone for. For being himself, probably.

He climbs the pitch-black stairs, and knocks twice, the sound sharp in the close silence.

Aramis opens the door only a few moments later, looking not at all surprised to see him standing there; and Athos wonders if Porthos has warned him ahead of time. "Athos! Welcome."

"Good evening," he replies, stepping carefully over the threshold, and closing the door behind him, before turning the key in the lock – which nets him a raised eyebrow.

After that, it's quite understandable that Aramis should assume he's here for something intimate; but as Aramis leans in to kiss him, a hand to the forearm stops him in his tracks. Athos clasps Aramis' elbow for a moment, nodding tightly; and something shutters in Aramis' eyes, which Athos supposes he thoroughly deserves.

While it's unlikely that she's followed him here, it's not impossible.

He has drawn his lines in the sand, and he will hold to them. There's far more at stake here than his own feelings.

Aramis rests both his hands lightly on Athos' forearms. "I'm hoping one day soon you'll tell us what's going on with you," he says gently, far more gently than Athos deserves; and Athos is torn between irritation that Aramis can't just ask after his health like a normal person, and a renewed awareness of the ever-present chasm inside him, and how he barely skirts its edges every day.

Aramis' eyes are warm in the candlelight, and full of kindness; and Athos hesitates.

In that moment, at least half of him wants to tell Aramis everything – but as soon as he thinks of it, the accompanying sense memory of being back at La Fère hits so strongly that it truly seems to be growing dark around him, and something cold and terrible clutches with small fingers at his heart as the smell of smoke curls into his nostrils.

A second later, he registers that one of the candles has guttered out.

That's all it is.

He's not going mad.

He wants to take a deep breath, but does not dare, not with Aramis so close; and it appears he's hesitated too long, as Aramis drops his hands, the warmth in his eyes dissipated.

Athos holds out the wine. "For you," he says, less kindly than he means to.

Aramis looks at it pointedly, folds his arms across his chest. "Is this you coming back?"

Well, Athos supposes he didn't come here to be asked the easy questions.

He wishes Aramis would just take the damned wine.

"Not as such," he replies, brushing past him and plonking the bottle carelessly down on the sideboard, before sinking down onto one of the crates stacked up next to it.

_Exactly where d'Artagnan was sitting that first evening_ , his brain unhelpfully reminds him.

He wants a fucking drink – but he's used it to make a point now, and he won't give Aramis the satisfaction.

Aramis sits silently opposite him on the bed, crossing his legs in front of him and stretching like a cat, completely unselfconsciously; and this makes Athos angry as well, like everything else in Aramis that he envies and at the same time doesn't understand.

_Why does everything have to be a bloody power play with him?_

He leans over and grabs the wine. Drinks from the bottle, doesn't offer it over.

Anyone who knew Aramis less well would be fooled by the easy, social smile he gives Athos as he leans back, weight on his hands. "To what do I owe the pleasure, then?"

And Athos realises he has no idea, blankness slamming into him like a wall.

He looks at the floor, at the buckles on Aramis' boots, his thoughts like syrup.

He came because Porthos asked him to.

Because it's been weeks.

Because of all they're supposed to mean to each other.

But put him and Aramis together, without Porthos to temper them, and they turn destructive in seconds.

It's probably not even Aramis' fault, probably all his; and yet even though he knows he's doing it, he can't quite bring himself to stop.

It's like he's the stubborn older brother again, he thinks – and immediately wishes he could take the thought back, as something clenches tightly under his sternum and it becomes difficult to breathe for a moment.

"Athos." Luckily Aramis' voice interrupts his thoughts, uncertain for the first time this evening. "You're always welcome here, you know that? I don't need to tell you."

"Porthos suggested I come," he replies, unable to think of anything polite.

"And come you did," Aramis replies cautiously.

"We spoke of d'Artagnan. It was – remiss of me not to ask how you are before now. Both of you."

Aramis looks searchingly at him – and shrugs slightly, the nonchalance of his body language at odds with the tightness in his face, as if to say, _well, I expected nothing else._

"I'm alright. We both are. I think d'Artagnan is hurting himself more than anyone else."

Athos raises an eyebrow. "It'll do him good to have a family," he points out. "Something normal."

He hadn't intended it as a slight, but Aramis suddenly looks like he wants to hiss through his teeth; and Athos knows he hates to be reminded of how truly _abnormal_ their relationship is.

But ultimately, they all have to live in the real world; and so he doesn't apologise, just proffers the bottle.

"With a married woman?" Aramis says at last.

Athos inclines his head, in concession of the point. "He'll figure it out."

He doesn't necessarily mean with Madame Bonacieux, after all. But for him to love – not as they do (Aramis too much, himself too little, Porthos only in secret), but to love a woman, one who will bring him happiness? Yes.

It was wrong to draw d'Artagnan into their affair, he sees that now; though it will only make Aramis angry to say so, so he keeps the thought to himself.

He can't imagine any of the three of them without the others; only together do they function as a whole.

D'Artagnan may be young, but he is whole in himself; and if they do not hold him down, he will rise above all of them.

A soft sigh draws his attention back to the room. Aramis has one hand in his hair, and is drinking straight from the bottle, unusually for him. He looks suddenly worn out, a vulnerability in his face that Athos knows only him and Porthos ever get to see – and that knowledge is almost enough to make him go to him.

Aramis is best comforted through touch; and Athos knows that the light pressure of his fingers on Aramis' brow could smooth away the lines there, that the tension in Aramis' muscles would bleed away in the circle of his arms. He knows what it is to hold him, and suddenly longs for it.

Still, he does not move.

Never to go to either of them again would be a small price to pay for their safety.

While he loves, he leaves himself open to attack. He has learnt that lesson already.

* * *

After that evening he stops fighting the urge to drink when it takes him, unless he's on duty. The city heat is merciless and wine only seems to make it worse, but he'd much rather feel stifled and sluggish than fearful.

He spends as much time outside of the city as possible, riding out past Seine-Port to swim in the Marne. He feels powerful in the water, relishing the long, strong strokes of his arms and legs, the blue stillness in his mind that he can only otherwise reach through fighting. It stops the prickling under his skin, at least for a time, and it's open enough among the grasslands that nobody can be observing him without his knowledge. He's learning that wide open spaces are as good as tightly closed ones.

Then one morning he wakes up to find that June has become July; and every time he falls down into the depths of himself, he's surprised by how easy it is. Within the space of just a few days he can barely remember what it was like to feel anything other than wretched, as if every fragile moment of contentment he's felt in the last five years happened to someone else entirely. Only remnants of Olivier, his foolish naïveté, that didn't manage to die when he did.

You die when your heart breaks, after all. And without the heart you are nothing; he's run his sword through enough men to be sure of that.

He stops leaving his rooms except to go to the garrison; drinks every night until he passes out, chasing oblivion. It's getting harder and harder to find, and he starts to feel sick as a dog with it, but he doesn't know what else would stop him seeing them in his mind.

_Her hands. His blood. The rope._

_Five years._

He doesn't know exactly what date it is on any given day, and refuses to find out, just puts one foot in front of the other until his duty is done and he can open another bottle.

He's no sort of company and he knows it, so he treats everyone around him as a stranger again; and Aramis and Porthos let him, distracting d'Artagnan whenever he starts to intrude. They have seen this before, after all, though they still do not know what it means.

He knows, logically, that it will end, the way that summer storms break the heat; but every year, this month strips him to the bone.

This year, though, it's different. This year she is _alive_ ; and that should make him feel better, but instead he feels even worse when he thinks of what she's become.

She may have lived, but he still destroyed her, and he knows she will destroy him in turn.

She's out there now, watching, biding her time; and the feeling of her eyes on him makes him itch, makes him scratch under his collar until Aramis takes his hand in his without a word, and pulls it from his neck to rest on his own thigh, eyes soft with concern.

He looks quickly away. To get sympathy from _Aramis_ even –

He doesn't scratch after that, just forces himself to bear the constant prickling unease as he stands in the shadows, back to the wall, his hand on his sword hilt.

He sits and drinks late into the night, in only his smallclothes, unable to bear his own stench in the relentless heat, the feeling of his shirt on his skin.

Ever since Tom died, he's always told himself that this is what it is. No more or less than the consequences of his actions; just something he has to bear. Not to be escaped; nor to be explained.

But this year he is full of questions.

It's been a month now, and he still doesn't know what she's doing here.

He can't stop seeing the way she smiled at him in the darkness, amused by his lack of understanding. Toying with him.

That vengeful creature that wears the face of the woman he loved, but is not her at all.

If she ever even existed.

She told him that she wanted them to leave each other alone, but she's a threat as long as she's in Paris.

The memory of her lips on his makes him want to throw up.

He's no closer to an answer than he's ever been.

She lives, and the justice he owed his brother has all come to naught.

(The justice that almost destroyed him.)

She lives or she dies, and he's not sure he can bear either possibility.

If only it was him she had killed instead.

Instead he has lived, and for what, when Tom is dead?

_Tom is_ _dead_ , he tells himself fiercely, slamming his cup on the table, wine jumping up and sloshing over his hand.  _He's_ _fucking_ dead _and nothing will bring him back._ Not her death, not his death, not his mercy. Not his forgiveness.

Not that he would ever forgive.

The wine he's spilled shines nearly black in the sliver of moonlight that streams in through the gap in his shutters, and he sees the blood is on his hands after all.

_It always was._

* * *

Only d'Artagnan is brave or foolish enough to come and call on him of an evening in the middle of July; and he has the grace at least not to look too taken aback when Athos answers the door half-dressed and bottle still in his hand, having at least thrown on a shirt and breeches.

While he wants to make it clear he's not accepting company, there _are_ limits.

He opens his mouth with a dismissal ready on his tongue; but there's something like desperation in d'Artagnan's expression that gives him pause.

Perhaps the boy is not here for him at all, but for himself.

He stands aside and lets him enter without a word.

There are blankets on the bed, this time, though there are no clean cups, and the one he does find is suspiciously green. He places it discreetly behind a stack of books and passes the boy the bottle he's been drinking from.

D'Artagnan plonks himself down on the bed and scrubs angrily at his eyes, where tears are forming. "Forgive me, this isn't very dignified," he says, waving a hand in front of his face.

"It's better to show it to me than to bear it alone," Athos replies; and then wonders a moment later if that is in fact the most hypocritical thing he's ever said.

"I don't see you crying," d'Artagnan points out, sounding annoyed.

And well he might, given the way he's been behaving, Athos thinks as he takes a drink of his own. Their night together seeming almost like another lifetime. "I'm hardly a good example to follow."

D'Artagnan looks at him curiously, and Athos remembers that he's not said much of anything to the boy in weeks, Porthos and Aramis becoming near-masters of keeping d'Artagnan from asking any inconvenient questions. He doesn't say anything more, though, just shifts himself further back against the bed, before lifting the bottle back from Athos' hand and taking another, deep swig.

"I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing," he says at last, looking unseeing into the room.

"You know I don't give advice," Athos replies carefully. "You're a man like the rest of us, and you have to find your own way."

"I know," d'Artagnan says wearily. "I love her, and I couldn't love her and lie with you without her knowing. It would be deceitful. But I do miss you all."

"You're not to speak of it to her," Athos replies, a clear command; and d'Artagnan nods slowly, as Athos knew he would, though he can see the reluctance in his face. "But whatever happens, we're still your brothers. You don't have to lie with us for that to be true."

"I know, I just – could I –" d'Artagnan lifts one arm up, a question in his eyes; and Athos pulls him into his side.

D'Artagnan sighs against him, tucking his head against the juncture of Athos' neck and shoulder, arm settling around Athos' waist. He's too warm really, but that couldn't be less important, not when he seems to _fit_.

"Better?" Athos whispers.

A pause, and then, "I don't ever want to let go."

"Then don't."

Athos looks around automatically.

The shutters are closed. It's night.

She told him to leave her alone.

He doesn't know if they are safe, not really, but d'Artagnan's need wins out; though he's not sure he can fool himself that the need is d'Artagnan's alone.

Well. Perhaps tonight at least, he isn't a burden.

"What is it, Athos?" d'Artagnan murmurs against his shirt collar. "I've never seen you like this."

It would be so easy to confide in him. The hardest part's already done: d'Artagnan knows about Anne, that she still lives. He could tell him she's in Paris and he might feel better, the way Aramis seems to think he will if he talks about his feelings.

But then there will only be more questions. D'Artagnan will want to do something, to try and solve this for him, pull at the loop of the problem as if it won't just make the whole sorry knot of his troubles close even tighter around him.

"It will pass," he responds in a voice that gives nothing away, though he's not sure if d'Artagnan will even accept it.

"Is it your wife?"

Of course d'Artagnan would ask him.

"Yes," he replies shortly, though it only barely counts as the truth. He hasn't mourned her for years, not really, and he definitely doesn't mourn her now. What he mourns is Tom, and his own poor decision-making.

He doesn't know if he mourns Olivier, of if he's glad he killed him too.

Having d'Artagnan here though, his warm weight and his beating heart, resisting the temptation to press his own lips against his hair – makes it all seem a shade more bearable.

"Lie down?" he asks, suddenly wanting to hold d'Artagnan even closer, wanting him to stay.

D'Artagnan removes his jacket and kicks his boots off without a word, and Athos throws an arm over him and pulls him to his chest.

It seems d'Artagnan is from Porthos' school of sleeping, as he's unconscious within minutes. Athos carefully shucks his own trousers off, and keeps d'Artagnan as close as he can bear in the heat, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

_We love each other,_ he realises, _I love him and he loves me_ ; and at the same time, the exact form of that love seems immaterial. He can love d'Artagnan like a brother, or like a son; like the Étienne to his Michel1, as he'd said to Aramis once; he could pleasure him daily, or never more, and be perfectly content just to have him near.

_If he was my son, I would prepare him to live without me there_ , he thinks, stroking the black hair under his fingertips. To be the best of his life, to be the best of all of them.

They are all older than him, and have been lucky so far, but it's only a matter of time – and when tragedy strikes, he wants d'Artagnan to be ready to walk free from their shadow.

If he could have one wish, it would be for the three of them to die together on the battlefield, side by side. Never have to know ignominy and ruin; never to have to bear a future with one of them gone.

* * *

When he arrives at the garrison a few mornings later, and Aramis turns to him and says, "August," with a small, careful smile, Athos feels like utter shit for just a moment before the clenching tightness in his chest eases just a fraction.

"August," he repeats, and decides that _yes_ , maybe it will not be as bad now as it's been.

The three of them are to ride out to Blois, with letters for Monsieur le Prince; another job which he suspects doesn't really need Musketeers, but the city is as quiet as it ever is, and he doesn't really wish to enquire. D'Artagnan, newly-commissioned, has been assigned to the palace guard.

It's good to be outside Paris, he decides as they make camp, the night drawing gently in. She knows nothing of the countryside; can't reach him here, and he finds himself beginning to relax at last.

When Aramis leans around the fire after supper and holds out a careful hand, Athos finds to his slight surprise that he wants to take it; and so he does, before he can convince himself otherwise. He realises after a moment that the pressure of Aramis' warm grip feels _safe_ , for the first time since the trial, knowing that she won't be there to see.

His resolve is fracturing, but it has been ever since d'Artagnan came to his bed.

As the two of them encourage him to his feet and over to the bedroll, he notices that they have laid everything out together, three sets of blankets overlapping in startling intimacy.

"Is this a seduction?" he asks, something in his tone that implies he wouldn't mind at all if it was.

They look – delighted, there's no other word for it. Delighted to have him near again, he realises with a lurch of guilty pleasure, and if he were a better man then he wouldn't be surprised by it every time.

He pulls them both to him.

He's testing himself, his own ability to touch, to desire; one hand under each of their shirts, stroking Aramis' hand and Porthos' collarbone, allowing his own head to fall back at the feeling of their lips on either side of his neck.

When they pull him down to the bedroll he's almost dizzy with lust for a second, wonders if he could lose himself in their bodies the way he loses himself in a bottle.

He remembers _her_ then, her eyes, her spies; and he will not risk it, not if he can't be assured it's safe. If this can be nothing but a moment out of time, then he will take it for what it is, and not ask for anything more.

It's ironic that something so taboo, so unspeakable is probably the best of him. This, his duty, his son, are who he is; and he realises as they undress him and he doesn't fall apart that there's more holding him together than he knew.

When he comes, hard and messy in their two hands (he realises now that it's been more than a month), there is for a pure white moment nothing else in his mind but warmth.

"And then there were three," Athos says afterwards, as they curl into each other, sated, and realises a second too late that it's cruel. "Forgive me, I didn't mean it like that."

Porthos shrugs, and sighs. "He's one of us still. Even if he chooses not to be here."

"He's doing what he believes is right," Athos replies. "I think of none of you differently, whether we bed each other or not."

Porthos looks over. "Aramis?"

Aramis shrugs, an echo of Porthos' movements. "It's his decision. But I'm not sure he's not just making himself unhappy."

Athos thinks of d'Artagnan curled against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt front, and elects to say nothing.

In time d'Artagnan will be happy. He will make them proud, Athos perhaps most of all, and they will all three be glad that they've let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _Careful_ , [Chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1179901/chapters/2530033); a reference to Montaigne's essay, _Of Friendship_.


	3. Queen

#### Paris,  August 1630

Ever since he emerged from the murky, shadowed pit of his first grief to find that against all odds, there were things in this world he still cared for, Athos has always feared this day would come.

Coward that he is, he had hoped he wouldn't live to see it. He'd hoped to take that final blade or bullet first, for his King or his brothers; hoped for nothing more than to slip quietly away from the world with his hands in theirs. His deceptions intact, their belief in him unshattered. An honourable death, that he knows he does not deserve.

Though he forgets far more than he ought, he's never forgotten the first time he looked at Porthos and Aramis, and realised he loved them – not yet as bedfellows but, even more importantly, as brothers.

He can still see that scene as clearly in his mind as if it were happening again before his eyes; recalls every sound and scent of that tavern in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, halfway into the night, his comrades' spirits high enough to affect even him.

He remembers the way they grinned at each other across the battered table and all the bottles they'd drunk dry, candlelight animating their expressions; and he saw such love in their faces then, such pure and uncomplicated joy in each other's presence, that his insides twisted with a jealousy and longing that was almost violent in its force, and he downed his drink to try and hide it, suddenly feeling more alone in the world than he had since the moment he turned his back on his childhood home.

When they turned to him just a moment later with the exact same smiles, and he finally understood that he too was included in the love he'd so envied, he realised that he had found a new home after all.

It was only hours later, as he drank alone with his shutters open to see the stars, that he came to understand he was as equally cursed as blessed: that the man they loved was as false as the woman he had loved, back when he knew no better. That he carries his own hidden truth inside him, with just as much potential to devastate.

Even through the years he'd thought her dead, years of despair and guilt and at last of tentative happiness, he had felt the truth of his past pushing constantly at his skin as if it would burst from him, roiling under the surface like disease.

He could forget, sometimes, for a few hours or even a few days, and be briefly content; but like the flood of the tide, the memory of his deception would always come rolling back.

What he had done could never be fully forgotten, and so never fully contained; and on the days he could not bear for them to touch him, it was for fear that just the heat of their hands on him would be enough to bring his corruption to the surface, and that they would see the Devil's black marks already on his skin.

It had surprised him, over and over for years, that he was strong enough to keep it all inside. Strong enough, at least, until La Fère; and then lucky, that only d'Artagnan had been there to see him fail. D'Artagnan, who had not known him long enough to love him; whom he had not yet called a brother, or lain with as an equal.

He has called d'Artagnan brother now, and son; but as they knelt together on the grass besides his burning home, it was as a son to a father that he confessed his sorry deeds, clung to him desperately, in hope of absolution; and d'Artagnan was too young, or too pitying, to hate him.

With d'Artagnan, he had not yet built love upon a lie.

He knows that Porthos and Aramis will not forgive him, because he has stood in their place; and he has never forgiven, never forgotten.

He was surprised to find out how much he can still hate her, this woman who is not his wife. She has a name now – Madame de la Chappelle – and a face that is a mockery of the one he loved, cold and sharp where he still catches himself expecting warmth and softness. In his weaker moments, the fault is not his at all but hers: for destroying him once, and coming to destroy him again.

Maybe he could have even been happy, in time; loving with his false face, learning to live with his deceptions. Sometimes he almost has been. If his past were buried deeper and his days fewer, he could perhaps even have lived them out in contentment.

But God is ever just, and no sins go unpunished. Certainly none so gross as his.

And they have _all_ sinned against God, loud and long, he knows that in his heart – no matter how passionately Aramis may speak of his God of love, as though wishing made it so. No, he knows his scripture; and he cannot be so wilfully blind.

Nothing good was ever going to come of this; and yet he has never been strong enough to resist it.

It's a relief, in the end, to find that he has no choice but to tell them. That his duty overrides any personal feelings he might have, the decision firmly out of his hands.

He is a servant of France, and of his King and Queen, and he will give everything for them.

His name. His life. His brothers.

He will tell them everything, because he must; and when they turn away from him, he can at least say that he did his duty.

It's at his request that the four of them have retired to Aramis' rooms tonight, instead of going to Tréville straight away; and though he's kept his expression carefully blank the whole way there, they are none of them stupid. D'Artagnan in particular – always so transparent – is radiating uncertainty.

Porthos and Aramis take up their usual position on Aramis' bed; and Athos forces himself to sit as well, his hip pressed against d'Artagnan's, as he slides an arm round his waist. It's much too intimate, really, for a myriad of reasons, and must seem quite unlike him; but d'Artagnan relaxes against his touch, and though Aramis raises an eyebrow, nobody says anything.

Weak evening light is still filtering in through the windows, and he resists the urge to close the shutters; notes Porthos' hands clasped in his lap, and Aramis' hand out of sight, most likely pressed against the small of Porthos' back beneath his doublet.

"Athos, it seems to me you should start." Aramis breaks the silence; and is Athos imagining it, or is there something pointed in his voice? "You alone seem to know who this woman is."

"The woman who contracted Gallagher to assassinate Her Majesty is a tool of the Cardinal," Athos recounts, with as little emotion as he can muster. "She calls herself a _soldier_ –" he can't stop the disgust creeping into his tone at that – "and she has used the name Madame de la Chappelle."

"The woman from Ninon de Larroque's trial," Aramis replies slowly, his gaze piercing like a knife between the ribs. "You're certain it is she?"

"Certain."

"Well, you _certainly_ knew her then," Aramis remarks.

The echoes of that day ripple at the edges of his mind: the shock, the blinding fury that followed straight upon. The way Porthos, Aramis, even Tréville had looked at him as they held him back, like a man they no longer knew.

_Not yet._

"Tell me what you found at the procurer's," he says instead, tearing his eyes from Aramis' face with difficulty. "D'Artagnan?"

"She was still there when we arrived," d'Artagnan replies, frowning to himself. "The woman. She must have killed the procurer, maybe doctored his ledger. I wasn't sure at first, but then I saw the trail of her skirts as she slipped out. I didn't see her clearly, but – it sounds weird, but I smelled her."

"Jasmine," Athos supplies.

D'Artagnan looks up at him in shock. "How did –? Yes."

"You said it was familiar," Aramis prompts. "That you'd smelled it before."

Athos has already opened his mouth to reply before he realises that he's not the one being addressed at all; that it is d'Artagnan Aramis is looking at.

_How could he have –_

Then it hits him.

D'Artagnan's mysterious patroness, who none of them have ever seen. Who the boy barely ever talks about.

If he even knows anything about her.

Athos gets unsteadily to his feet, leaning on the sideboard for support, and grabs a bottle of wine without asking, uncorking it and gulping the liquid down, ignoring Aramis' noise of protest.

He can feel everyone watching him.

"D'Artagnan," he says at last, unable to stop his voice catching, "I need you to tell me everything you can about your patroness."

"What –" Porthos begins, but quiets immediately as Aramis squeezes his hand sharply.

"The jasmine," d'Artagnan murmurs – looking up at Athos, but speaking to himself. "Of course."

"She…her name's Milady de Winter," d'Artagnan continues slowly, looking warily up at Athos; and he tries to keep his face blank but can feel he's staring, feels the emotion rolling in him, too strong and confused to make any logical sense of. "She's got dark hair, pale skin, and green eyes. She's maybe thirty. She's well-spoken, and well-dressed, she obviously has money. We met at an inn in Meung, when I was first on my way to Paris. I was alone, my father was… already dead."

"Did you mention my name?" Athos asks, more forcefully than he meant.

"No – I'm sure of it," d'Artagnan replies, looking perplexed, yet not questioning him. "I had no reason to. We barely spoke. Her companion insulted me, and we were set to duel the next morning, but she – she murdered him in the night and tried to frame me for it. I awoke to a bloody knife in my pillow."

"Did you make love to her?" Athos demands.

There is an awkward pause, as nobody seems to know where to look, least of all d'Artagnan; and it would be an unforgiveable question to ask under any circumstances, but he _has_ to know how deep this goes, if she's got her claws into d'Artagnan too.

D'Artagnan stares up at him for a moment, but whatever he sees in Athos' face must be answer enough.

"Only that once, at the inn," he replies, looking Athos straight in the eye, with a trust in his face that makes Athos feel utterly wretched. "Never again after that. She found me a few weeks later in Paris, and saved my life when Vadim was trying to blow up the palace – she shot one of his accomplices, who was about to kill me. Then she bought my way into the royal tournament. She tried to seduce me again after that, but I wouldn't go with her.

"There's something cold about her. It doesn't surprise me that she's the Cardinal's woman."

The words are on his lips, but he still can't say them; and in this moment it's not Porthos or Aramis that he thinks of at all, but d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan who has loved him, and trusted him; and in return Athos has brought his curse into d'Artagnan's life, brought _her_ into it; and all he can think is that she will destroy him too, consume him, as Athos himself has been consumed before him.

"She's something worse than that," he manages, barely above a whisper.

"No!"

It's the second time in his life he's watched the face of someone he loves crumple, as if all their strength has been lost; and he prays with every fibre of his ruined heart that he will never see it again.

"Please, Athos," d'Artagnan whispers, in sheer desperation. "Tell me it's not true."

He only wishes he could.

"What's going on?" Aramis demands; and Athos had almost forgotten there was anybody else in the room. "Who is she?"

He had thought it would hurt more than this to tell them, but now that the moment has come, he finds he's just _tired_ , of all of it.

All these years, and he is glad, actually, that it will be over soon.

Eyes still firmly fixed on d'Artagnan – finding his strength there, despite everything he has done to him – Athos finally says the words he's been keeping buried inside himself all this time.

"My wife."

There is a horrible silence from the direction of the bed.

"Your _wife_ ," Aramis repeats, in disbelief. "Madame de la Chappelle is _your wife_."

Only then does Athos look at him – to see shock, and if he's not mistaken, the beginnings of disgust.

And while it hurts more than if Aramis had struck him, it's no surprise.

"My God, Athos, I'm so sorry," d'Artagnan is babbling – Athos looks back over at him, shocked to see there are tears in his eyes. "If I'd _known_ –"

He holds up a hand, cutting d'Artagnan off.

"It's not your fault," Athos replies wearily. "She used you deliberately, to get to me. There was no way you could have known."

He takes another drink, and glances across at the others.

Porthos' face is the picture of abject misery.

Aramis' face is tight, and dangerous, and Athos supposes it makes sense that he would be angry.

"You had a _wife_ , all this time?!" Aramis spits suddenly, as if he's tried and failed to hold the words back.

Porthos immediately puts a restraining hand on Aramis' knee.

"You said there was a woman, but she died," he picks up, voice grave, but level. "What happened?"

"I hanged her," he replies baldly, looking at the floor, unable to hold their gazes.

The twin incredulous stares he can feel himself receiving at that would be almost comical, were this in any way remotely funny.

"Or, I tried to," he amends, realising belatedly that this whole thing must make little sense to either of them.

"Athos..." d'Artagnan begins, but trails off just as quickly; the boy clearly has no idea what he could possibly say that might make a difference.

Athos would never have expected Aramis to be right; but in the awful silence which follows, through his own turbulent mess of emotions, he's surprised to find  a strange thread of calm at the knowledge that it's all out in the open now, at least. That they finally know the worst of him.

That things cannot get any worse than this, than the way they are looking at him right now: Aramis' anger like a coiled spring; Porthos like he might be sick.

D'Artagnan like his heart's been broken.

"Were you _ever_ going to tell us any of this?!" Aramis exclaims, raising his hands in front of him, tensing his fingers into claws as if it's Athos' shoulders he wants to shake.

"My past is not –" Athos begins, too tentatively, and Aramis cuts him off.

"Your past is clearly not _in_ the past, if your _wife_ is turning up and trying to kill A- Her Majesty!"

 _Of course_ , Athos thinks, with a jolt of realisation; how could he have been so blind?

While Aramis' expression doesn't waver as they stare one another down, Athos knows that Aramis is aware he's given himself away, and that he will have picked up on it.

Anne.

Or _Anna_ , perhaps, her Spanish name. That would be just like him.

No, there will be no understanding from Aramis.

"How long have you known?" Porthos asks.

"And how did _he_ know?" Aramis asks, pointing at d'Artagnan.

When the words stick in Athos' throat, it's d'Artagnan who replies. "It was when we were escorting Bonnaire to Paris. When I left you two on the road and went back to find Athos – she'd set the mansion on fire, with him inside. That was when he found out she was alive. But I didn't see her face then. I didn't know she was the same woman who was my patroness."

"And you rescued Athos from the fire?" Aramis asks.

"Yes."

Porthos sighs, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "So your wife comes back from the dead, nearly offs you and you don't say a word about it to anybody?!"

"I didn't want to believe it," Athos replies, after too long a pause. "I was not myself that day. I didn't fully believe what I'd seen."

"You were drunk, you mean," Aramis counters accusingly; and d'Artagnan's mouth falls open in anger, but he closes it again when Athos reaches over to dig his fingers into the boy's shoulder.

"But then you knew her at Ninon de Larroque's trial," Aramis continues. "You knew her then, you knew what game she was playing, and still you said nothing to any of us! And then she tries to kill the Queen, and – an innocent woman died…" Aramis looks suddenly down at his hands, twisting in his lap, his voice hitching suspiciously.

Athos doesn't reply.

He has nothing to say in his own defence.

He remembers, then, seeing Aramis crouched over the dead nun's body, and the tears he had brushed away; wonders for the first time if it meant something more than he had understood.

There have no doubt been enough of Aramis' women that finding one in every convent in France would not surprise him.

"Aramis! Athos can't be held responsible for that," Porthos argues, hand squeezing Aramis' thigh. "He couldn't have known what would happen."

Porthos coming to his defence is completely unexpected; and what does it say about him, he wonders, that his first instinct is to object?

"He could still have stopped her. _We_ could have stopped her." Aramis insists. "Mary, Mother of God, Athos," he runs a hand through his hair, gets up, takes a few abortive paces. "I don't think I can bear to look at you right now."

"Sit down, Aramis," Porthos says quietly.

"I will not sit down! Why am I the only one who's angry?!"

Athos knows very well why, of course, not that he can speak of it.

"Athos. Milady takes her orders from the Cardinal, doesn't she?" D'Artagnan asks suddenly.

"As I understand it, yes, she does," he replies, wondering where exactly this is going.

"So if she hadn't arranged the assassination, someone else would have done it in her place."

"Yes, I imagine so."

"So it's not his fault!" D'Artagnan glares at Aramis.

Athos tightens his grip on the sideboard.

"I don't _believe_ this!" Aramis exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. "A woman _died_ because of him and you're _defending_ him –"

"Aramis!" Porthos rebukes, pain and anger in his voice – and it's too much, if he stays here any longer he'll panic, or fall apart, and he can't do that, he _can't –_

Athos walks abruptly across the room, out of the door and down the stairs with all the dignity he can muster, ignoring Porthos and d'Artagnan's voices calling after him.

All along he had known better than to drag them down with him, and he ignored every instinct he had – and for what?

That question's too painful to answer, so he keeps walking, boots hitting the mud beneath with military precision.

The last thing he wanted was to come between them. They have always been each other's far more than they are his; and to have them turn away from him would be understandable, but to turn away from each _other_ – no, he couldn't bear to be the cause of that.

"Athos!"

It's D'Artagnan's voice, d'Artagnan running after him; and he does not turn to acknowledge him, just keeps walking until he hears the footsteps slow beside him.

"Go away, boy," he replies, injecting as much of the bored aristocrat into his tone as he can manage.

It's not much. To his own ears he just sounds weak, and old.

"No," d'Artagnan retorts, putting a hand on his arm – which Athos jerks immediately away. "I'm not leaving you," he insists; and Athos curses himself for ever encouraging this stubbornness.

"I mean to go home, and I am not at home to visitors."

"Don't care. I'll break down your door if I have to. If you mean to stop me you'll have to kill me." D'Artagnan replies, completely unperturbed.

Athos ignores him, though by now he doubts it will have any effect.

"They were still arguing when I left," d'Artagnan continues – uncertain, now. "Will it blow over, do you think?"

"No, I don't," Athos replies shortly.

He has never seen them angry with each other before.

Just another thing to add to his list of misdeeds.

When Athos gets to his front door, he gives d'Artagnan a long look, trying to determine if he means to follow through on his threat. The boy is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, ready to put all of his weight onto the open door; and raises an eyebrow at Athos as if to say, _try me_.

 _Bloody Gascons_ , he thinks, opening the door and walking through without holding it open, leaving d'Artagnan to please himself.

He lets himself be pushed gently down onto the bed, though, shrugging off his doublet as d'Artagnan picks up a bottle of wine from his dresser, and a cup;  he watches him inspect the inside of the cup, and make a clucking noise of disapproval as he sets it back down and just passes the bottle over. Athos decides he's too tired to even be embarrassed.

D'Artagnan waits, allows Athos a drink before he speaks. "I really thought for a moment there that you hated me," he says quietly, voice tight, "but then I saw that it is yourself you hate."

Something cold strikes at Athos' heart, but he refuses to let it show.

"I'm a murderer and a sodomite," he objects, at least having the presence of mind to keep his voice down. "Men are hanged for less than either of those things."

D'Artagnan sighs. "For the last time, Athos, you are _not responsible_ for what happened at the convent. If Milady had not been the link between the Cardinal and Gallagher, somebody else would have been, and everything would have played out in exactly the same way. I _know_ her," d'Artagnan continues, sinking down onto the bed next to him and taking Athos' hands in his, grip warm and sure, "and Porthos and Aramis do not. I alone understand how dangerous she is. And I have killed too, as surely as you have."

" _Not like that,_ " Athos insists, looking down at their joined hands. "Not like I have at all." To his utter mortification, he feels tears pricking warm in his eyes; and holds them determinedly open, refusing to blink.

"We have both killed to uphold the rule of law," d'Artagnan counters, voice soft now, and running his thumbs across Athos' knuckles, a gesture of reassurance he does not deserve. "That's what you told me you did, remember? The only difference is that now you follow orders, rather than give them."

Athos pulls one hand away to take a swig from the bottle, relishing the numbness of the alcohol that he can feel slowly building, soothing the rawness in him.

"I couldn't watch," he whispers harshly. D'Artagnan is so close, their foreheads almost touching; and he wants for an unforgiveable second to kiss him instead of speaking, to lose himself in that young body, and to tell no further secrets. "I turned away. If I had not done so, she would be dead."

"Then God saw you doubted, and He granted you redemption," d'Artagnan replies, as if it has ever been that simple.

Athos almost laughs. "What does God know of me?"

"Everything," d'Artagnan replies, with a certainty Athos wishes he could feel. "You've told me everything, have you not?"

Athos doesn't reply, which is tacit agreement in itself.

"And knowing everything, I still believe you a good man. And as for the sodomy part –" d'Artagnan huffs a small laugh – "we are both equally guilty of that one. Unless you would condemn me for it too."

"I am older than you," Athos objects, "and your superior –"

D'Artagnan leans back, looking at Athos with what's almost amusement on his face, and it is only then that he realises he's given himself away.

"And you think I didn't go into this with my eyes wide open? _Honestly_ ," d'Artagnan smiles, "as soon as Aramis told me what you three did together, as soon as I realised it was _possible_ , I realised I'd desired you all along. That what I'd put down to admiration had been something even more."

His hand moves to Athos' face, thumb stroking the line of his jaw; and to have d'Artagnan look at him so tenderly actually hurts, deep down in Athos' unworthy soul. "I was glad for all of you, don't get me wrong; but for me, really, it's always been you."

Athos pulls his head away, unable to bear it any longer. "D'Artagnan –"

Two hands reach up to cup his face this time, turning it back until their eyes meet once more. "I believe in you, Athos," d'Artagnan insists, the light of love in his eyes, "and there's nothing you can do about it."

D'Artagnan's gaze drops then to Athos' mouth, tongue unconsciously flicking out to wet his lips; and Athos puts a warning hand on his wrist, where it's still cupping his jaw. "You don’t have to –"

"I know, d'Artagnan replies, meeting Athos' eyes again, looking suddenly years older. "I want this for myself as well."

When d'Artagnan brings his lips to Athos', soft as a breath, Athos lets himself stop thinking at last, lets himself turn pliant and unresisting as he rests a cautious hand on d'Artagnan's waist, suddenly afraid that any sudden moves on his part might disturb this moment between them, might cause d'Artagnan to rethink his actions.

Now that he's let himself have this, he couldn't bear for it to stop.

D'Artagnan prises the bottle from Athos' other hand and sets it carefully on the floor, before pulling Athos down to the bed with him; hands pulling his shirt free from his breeches, finding the skin beneath.

Athos pushes d'Artagnan's doublet back off his shoulders, and gives him a few seconds to fight his way out of it before dragging him down to the bed again, pulling him close, d'Artagnan's cheek against his own.

He's at least half-hard, and he can feel d'Artagnan is too; but neither of them move to touch each other more intimately, just clinging to each other – hands on backs, shoulders, necks, heads – like the eye of a storm.

This is all he wants, right now: the feeling of a warm body against his. Some animal comfort, however temporary it may be.

D'Artagnan knows everything, and still he holds Athos in his arms as if he is not worthless.

Athos lets out a jagged sigh, allowing himself to breathe in d'Artagnan's scent, appreciating the weight of his body in his arms. Imagining for a moment that whatever he's lost today, he could still have this; knowing in the same breath that he cannot.

"Don't make a habit of this," he forces himself to say. "You should fall in love. Marry. Have a family."

"I know," d'Artagnan replies, gripping him even more tightly, "I want that too. But today we need each other."

A hand finds its way into Athos' hair (and who told him about that, he wonders, or has d'Artagnan just been that observant?) and Athos tucks his head into d'Artagnan's shoulder, letting his eyes fall closed at last.


	4. Players

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warning for this chapter: references to suicidal thoughts.

#### Paris, August-September 1630

Everything that follows is easy, by comparison.

Athos still has to tell Tréville, and the very next morning too, but that is only briefly painful; he manages to mostly ignore the shame that flutters like a trapped bird in his breast and to look his Captain firmly in the eye while he explains who Madame de la Chappelle is, to him as well.

D'Artagnan's hand presses reassuringly in the small of his back all the while.

Porthos and Aramis are standing side by side at the other corner of Tréville's desk, a mirror image of the two of them; and Porthos meets Athos' gaze briefly as he reaches the end of his explanation, with a small, sad smile.

Aramis does not look at him at all.

Athos doesn't know quite what he'd feared – the part of his mind that can't be reasoned with fearing all manner of things, as ever – but he still finds he's relieved when Tréville simply looks at him consideringly and says only, "Go on," neutral as if he were hearing a mission report.

It occurs to him – too late – that Tréville may well have known all along. The last time he used his old name was four years ago in this room, where he'd traded it for his pauldron; and what sort of commander would not learn of the men under his command?

While Athos fortunately doesn’t remember most of the dark days following the initial scandal, having been too busy drinking himself to sleep and praying never to wake again, it would be fooling himself to assume that word of it had not reached Paris, even just as a footnote in a round-up of provincial gossip.

He pushes the shame aside. There is no place for it now, not when he has his duty to do.

"We don't know if Milady realises that we suspect her involvement in the attempt on Her Majesty's life – though we have no proof," he summarises. "Also, she knows that I know her to be in the Cardinal's employ. But what I am sure she does _not_ realise is that we have identified her as also being d'Artagnan's patroness."

Tréville raises his eyebrows, and leans forward in his chair. "You're absolutely certain of it?"

"As certain as I can be without having seen them speak," Athos replies. "I… still possess a likeness of her, and d'Artagnan has confirmed it." He pauses for a moment, looks searchingly at Tréville, whose expression says, _I'm waiting to see how this comes together._ "I know her methods, and I believe that whatever she's planning will involve playing the two of us off against one another, though what I cannot tell is whether she means only to destroy me in the process, or the entire regiment."

"It would not surprise me if it was both," Tréville replies, steepling his hands on the desk before him. "Do you know if she was involved in the attempt to frame you for those murders earlier this year?"

"No, but I strongly suspect so – that it was the Cardinal's plot to discredit the regiment and thus negate your influence on the King, and that it was she who chose me as the scapegoat."

"And it is for him she works." Tréville sighs. "Then it is to the Cardinal that we need to deal a blow. He needs to be shown that his machinations have gone too far this time, and given a warning that he will be forced to take seriously."

"So we're just going to let him get away with it?!" Aramis blurts out – and Athos turns sharply, to see that Porthos already has a restraining hand on Aramis' upper arm. He can feel d'Artagnan on his other side, staring openly. "Anyone else would hang, for what he's done! Her Majesty –"

" _Aramis!_ " Athos rebukes; and the look he gets in return would curdle milk, but Aramis does at least close his mouth, though it looks like it's with no small effort.

"Her Majesty is beloved of us all, Aramis," Tréville replies – his voice calm, but with a clear warning behind it that sends a chill skittering down Athos' spine.

Nobody knows, he is sure of it; nobody could. But even at the palace, he has seen the way Aramis looks at her, as if he just can't help himself. It would be naïve to expect it has not gone unremarked.

The glare he sends in Aramis' direction says _for God's sake be careful._

"But the fact remains that loath as I am to admit it, His Majesty is in need of Cardinal Richelieu, as is France itself," Tréville continues. "To try and topple him would be imprudent for many reasons."

The truth of Tréville's words is immediately clear to all of them; even including Aramis, Athos thinks, as he watches him give a stiff nod in recognition of Tréville's point, though his expression is still mutinous.

 _Stupid_ , Athos thinks, surprising himself with his own vehemence. _Stupid, stupid, stupid;_ _why does he always have to –_

To what?

Get involved, when it is Athos who brought all this trouble to their door to begin with?

Aramis should not be free from censure for his actions, but Athos is certainly in no position to give it. Not when he is the one whose actions have put so many people in danger.

His attention is drawn back to the room as he realises d'Artagnan is speaking. "And Milady de Winter, then? What of her?"

"If she has merely been acting for the Cardinal, then her involvement does not directly concern the Crown." Tréville hesitates uncharacteristically. "However, should the full details of this affair come to light, and were the lady in question married, it would be possible that her husband would be called upon to account for her actions."

 _Just another way for her to ruin me_ , Athos realises; and what is _wrong_ with him, that something about the return of this cold familiar dread hanging over him is reassuring, even to be welcomed?

Better this than a sodomy charge.

It would still be infamous, but his brothers would be safe.

But better to be dead than to lose his commission.

Such a development could still bring the regiment into disrepute, though, when it became known that the lady in question was the wife of a Musketeer. The King would not be inclined to mercy where an injustice towards his Queen was concerned; who knows what his response might be?

_Does not directly concern the Crown. If her involvement came to light._

He has to struggle to keep his face blank as the implications of Tréville's phrasing suddenly become clear.

That it would be better for everyone – better for him – if Anne were to quietly disappear.

He has tried before. Maybe he will even get it right this time.

Suddenly he knows what he must say.

"The Comtesse de la Fère is dead these five years. I can attest to that myself," Athos replies, his face stone.

 _No_ , nothing will come to light.

"Then I trust I know all that I need to," Tréville finishes. "Come to my lodgings tomorrow after dark, and we'll start discussing the details then."

Aramis strides straight out of the door, with only a curt nod to Tréville first that's on just the right side of polite, not looking at any of them. Porthos shoots an apologetic glance at Athos, but follows quickly after.

Just as Athos turns to leave, Tréville addresses him again. "Athos, a word before you go."

Athos turns back and positions himself directly in front of Tréville's desk as he hears the door close, leaving them alone.

The small, dark voice in his mind saying that this is the moment he'll be asked to resign his commission.

Instead Tréville says, "I am considering taking Aramis off all duties at the palace for the time being. What would be your opinion on the matter?"

People _have_ been talking, then, and the whispers have reached Tréville's ears.

Or perhaps he has even seen for himself.

"I think that would be for the best," Athos replies carefully. "Naturally, he feels deeply the injustice of the attempt on Her Majesty's life."

"Naturally," Tréville repeats, looking straight at Athos with an expression that he knows from experience means _you need to handle him, so I don't have to._ "That'll be all. Good evening."

"Good evening, Captain," Athos replies; and though they have never held to strict formality between them, he follows his instincts and salutes Tréville sharply before turning on his heel.

D'Artagnan is waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and puts a hand on Athos' forearm, manoeuvring him out of the garrison without a word.

Athos has never been more glad that Tréville is content to know only what is necessary. That he is happy for him to be nothing more than a good soldier, and does not expect him to also be a good person.

Even if that means burying his past. A past that doesn't take kindly to being buried, it seems.

Last time he couldn't watch. Would this time be any different?

To let her ruin him would be would be no less than he deserves.

Were it not for his brothers – his regiment – there would not even be a choice.

"We won't let her take you down with her," d'Artagnan says quietly, somehow reading Athos' thoughts, squeezing his elbow. "You know that, right?"

Athos doesn't reply. He doesn't want promises, or declarations; wants less than anything for d'Artagnan to consider compromising his own honour for Athos' sake.

Not when he is already damned.

* * *

Over the weeks that follow, they put their plan together under cover of darkness, arriving separately, sometimes at Tréville's lodgings, and sometimes at rooms in the garrison. They are all unfailingly present, though it is he, Tréville and d'Artagnan who do most of the planning; Aramis says little, and Porthos barely a word, though Athos supposes that they have little to add.

The plan hinges on himself and d'Artagnan, after all.

The mood is different between Aramis and Porthos night to night, but never easy, and Athos wonders if they are as unhappy with each other as they are with him.

He drinks steadily throughout; not as much as he wants to, but more than he wanted Tréville to see. He can't bear not to, though, with them all planning late into the night, and nobody sleeping quite enough, the constant near-exhaustion compounding the unease. He promises himself he'll cut down once all this is over – provided he isn't dead, or ruined.

He allows himself to give into some of his paranoia now, with the importance of what they're planning; doubles back on himself through the streets, allows himself to turn when he feels watched, to see what is there. Nothing ever is.

D'Artagnan walks him home more often than not, and stays, curling into Athos' body in sleep, pressing his hands against his flank as if he's staunching a wound. He doesn’t seem to be seeing Madame Bonacieux any longer – there would barely be time for it – and Athos doesn't ask. He was always surprised it got as far as it did.

They do not pleasure each other. Athos finds he does not mind, and d'Artagnan does not seem to either.

He feels he has very little to give these days.

It does at least help to have a purpose, something to take his mind off all the damage he's done. He understands himself best as a soldier, and this is nothing more than a mission, though the stakes are the highest they've ever been.

Tréville watches them all silently – watches d'Artagnan leave with Athos night after night, though he lodges at the garrison now – and says nothing, for which Athos is grateful almost daily. He does not think Tréville suspects, but it is clear to anyone who knows the four of them that their brotherhood is something more than is usual – and that it has been cleaved in two, the jagged and weeping edges never more visible than when they face each other down across Tréville's kitchen table.

He wonders if they still get called the three inseparables. The four inseparables now, probably, though to him it has never felt less true.

Aramis has still barely spoken to him in weeks; and Porthos little more, though from him it seems to be not so much anger as a lack of anything much to say.  

Athos has never begrudged him the decision to put Aramis first.

If he is ruined, he will vanish from their lives like smoke; and they will still have each other, he hopes, and watch over d'Artagnan for him.

* * *

It is two evenings later that Porthos lets Aramis leave Tréville's lodgings alone, as abruptly as he always does, and hangs back to follow Athos and d'Artagnan out into the street. The moon is new, and Athos cannot read his expression.

"Let me see you home?" Porthos asks, as if Athos is a lady in need of his protection; and d'Artagnan only waits for Athos' nod of acquiescence before bidding them both goodnight and disappearing in the opposite direction – to his own bed, for once.

Athos waits for Porthos to fall into step beside him, though not saying anything. He finds he is not curious; what will come will come, and probably not until they are behind closed doors.

If Porthos notices the way he scans the streets for any unexpected movements, he does not comment on it.

Indeed the door of Athos' lodgings has barely closed behind them before Porthos speaks.

"He told me. Aramis."

 _Of course he did,_ Athos thinks; and he had expected he would be angry when this inevitably happened, but really he's just surprised that it even took this long.

He turns away to light a candle; when he looks back it's to see Porthos watching him warily, as if he half expects Athos to shoot the messenger.

Is he really so unpredictable?

He supposes he probably is.

"We can't talk about this," he replies tiredly, sinking down onto the bed and reaching for a bottle; but Porthos just carries on as if he hasn't even spoken.

"He doesn’t blame you for what happened, not really, but he's still angry. I knew there must be something more to it."

"I told him he wasn't to tell you," Athos says, swigging from the bottle – and it's not true, he did no such thing, but the lie is coming from his mouth before he realises it; and he decides that if he can do something to unite the two of them, even if it's against him, then it might just undo some of the damage he's caused. "I insisted. You could be hanged just for knowing."

"And so could you," Porthos counters immediately. "We're in this together, and that means _everything_. That's what we agreed, isn't it?"

 _But it wouldn't matter if I hanged_ , Athos thinks; and prays in the same breath that the thought doesn't show on his face.

Whether it's the low light or Porthos' own preoccupation, he seems to get away with it, as Porthos carries on talking, wringing his hands all the while. "I wasn't angry with him – I couldn't be, even though it was bloody stupid. I don't think there's much I wouldn't forgive him. I'm just glad he trusted me enough to tell me the truth."

Through the weeks of watching Aramis' palpable anger and frustration, Athos has nearly forgotten Porthos once again; and he reels for a moment as if he's been punched.

He had not expected it to be Porthos who would cut him the most deeply.

The temptation to defend himself is briefly overwhelming. To make excuses, claim that he was trying to forget, or had thought the truth of his past to be unimportant. Empty lies, that neither of them would believe.

He will not say a word. He owes Porthos that, at least.

He startles at a hand on his knee; Porthos is suddenly crouching down in front of him, his eyes dark and sad.

"I'm not going to judge what you did, and Aramis isn't neither," Porthos says softly. "We weren't there, and we don't know what happened. But we could have helped you, if only you'd let us in.

"It's difficult to love someone, when they won't let you."

Athos looks into Porthos' eyes then, and wants nothing more than to say _it's better this way, you're better off not loving me at all_ ; but the knowledge of the heartbreak he will see on Porthos' face if he does so stays his tongue.

Porthos will no more believe him than he can believe Porthos.

Would telling the truth be doing them both a kindness in the long run? Or is it better to let them believe at first that there's something in him that can be salvaged, and let time smooth their love gently away until they feel nothing for him at all?

"Right," Porthos says with a deflated shrug, squeezing Athos' knee gently as he stands, "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Clutching the bottle in his hand like a lifeline, Athos stares at the closed door long after Porthos has disappeared behind it.

* * *

He is alright, somehow, without them.

Well, not _alright_ , he feels as much like shit as ever; but the particular reasons for it have blurred together more and more since she came back. If it were not for want of them it would be for want of something, someone else.

He has lost nothing that he ever really allowed himself to believe in.

Somehow he still believes in d'Artagnan, who has stood faithfully at his side through all of this. Who is starting to sleep in his own bed again more and more.

And that's what he wants, isn't it, for the boy to stand without them?

 _Of course it is_.

* * *

When Aramis turns up unannounced at his door, a few hours after an early duty, it takes Athos genuinely by surprise.

He had thought he'd pushed him too far this time, far enough for Aramis to simply stop trying, but evidently the reserves of his brother's futile perseverance are not quite exhausted yet.

"Porthos made me come," Aramis announces, not bothering to say hello as usual; pushing past Athos into his room and throwing open the shutters as if they're his own, before flopping down in Athos' normal place on the bed. "He's going to keep on being angry with me until I say I've tried talking to you. Though I don't see the fucking point, to be frank."

Athos sighs to himself and pulls up a chair, already feeling exhausted. He's only into his second bottle of the day; and he's not sure he sees the fucking point either.

There is too much between them already. Murder. Treason. _Her_.

"I don't know where to start with this," Aramis says – mostly to himself, Athos thinks, running a hand through his hair; and Athos feels an unexpected twinge of empathy, because he's never quite known where to start with himself either.

"That depends on what you want," he replies, passing him a half-full bottle of wine, reaching for one of his own.

"What I _want_ ," Aramis hisses, "is to shake you and to keep shaking you until you stop hating yourself, but if I thought it would do any good I'd have done it years ago."

Athos looks away, biting his lip, trying desperately not to show any of the guilt and shame churning in his stomach.

 _You weren't supposed to know,_ he thinks, _you weren't supposed to see it._

_Not when I tried so hard not to burden any of you._

He's an idiot, isn't he? Aramis, Porthos – even d'Artagnan has seen it, and the boy has not known him a year.

If only he had been strong enough to keep his distance.

He has never been strong, though, or things would have been very different indeed.

" _Why_ did you hang your wife, at least?"

The question shocks him back to the moment; and he hesitates, so used to keeping his secrets that it takes him a full few seconds to remember that it's all out now. There's no point any longer; and if Aramis wants something from him, he might as well have it.

"She killed my brother," Athos replies flatly.

"Oh." That seems to take some of the wind out of Aramis' sails. "Then I can at least understand why you'd want revenge."

"Not revenge, _justice_ ," Athos spits, suddenly angered despite himself. "It was my _duty_. I was the Comte, there was no other authority."

Aramis' face creases in something that's almost like sympathy. "And you haven't had a moment's peace ever since, have you?"

He shakes his head mutely.

"Well done."

Athos frowns. "What?"

Aramis, improbably enough, is _smiling_. "That's the first time I've ever heard you defend yourself."

Thrown, Athos mutters, "I don't mean that I was right to do it."

"But nor did you tell half the story and leave us to think you worse than you are," Aramis counters.

Has he really been doing that?

Athos supposes that he has; and wonders for the first time if he's just as culpable for not telling the full story as he would have been for defending the indefensible.

"It was wrong of me to blame you for the assassination attempt," Aramis admits, something beaten-down in his voice. "Porthos was right. The orders would have come from the Cardinal, and it would have been someone else if it wasn't her. She just did the leg work." He shifts uneasily where he's sitting. "It's just that –"

"Her deeds are still on my head." Athos cuts him off, knowing what's coming, and needing Aramis not to say it.

They both know what happened, and they do not need to speak of it.

" _You_ saved her, though, as much as I did," Aramis points out. "Her Majesty, that is. I couldn't have done it alone."

"I am still responsible," Athos insists.

"Why, for God's sake? Because that woman was your wife?"

" _Is_ my wife. Because I _destroyed_ her," Athos growls, annoyed that Aramis won't just _accept_ it for once. "And in doing so, I made her what she is."

Aramis actually laughs at that. "Athos, she's the Cardinal's _personal assassin_. She must at least have some very fine skills, which I somehow can't imagine she learned from you. Do you even know what she was before you married her?"

"I thought her to be a parson's sister. A commoner, but well-bred." It physically hurts to think of. "Tom – my brother – found out about her criminal past, that's why she killed him. But I never saw the evidence of it. I don't know anything else." He pauses, fidgets, makes himself stop. "Perhaps she was a whore."

He hears her voice in his head again: _We all have to use our natural talents._

"It would explain why she never –"

He looks down at his hands, clutching the neck of the bottle.

Even after all that's passed, there are still some thoughts he can't quite bring himself to voice.

He's glad, he _really_ is, that they never had a child. It would have made everything that followed ten times worse.

He can't imagine her as a mother.

And yet, he had always assumed he would have children. A son, an heir, and teach him everything his father had taught him.

Instead his burned-out shell of a home will be given over to the crown, his lands redistributed, and he can't bring himself to care.

He looks numbly back up at Aramis.

"I'd wager she was doing exactly that same work before she met you," Aramis says, more gently; and why _that_ of all things would earn him sympathy Athos can't imagine. "You haven't created her at all. You just had the misfortune to be taken in by her. D'Artagnan said she was a viper."

"I can never forgive myself for bringing her into your lives," Athos insists; clinging stubbornly to the idea, though he even he is starting to doubt.

Aramis throws up his hands with an exclamation that might be Spanish, or might just be a noise of wordless frustration. "Are you even listening to me?! God help me, Athos, sometimes I find it hard to understand why I'm in love with you."

_So do I._

"Then why are you here?" he asks, though he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

"Because you're my brother," Aramis replies decidedly, playing his trump; and even as far gone as Athos is, drunk and in abject misery, he will not throw that back in Aramis' face.

Wretched as he may be, there are lines he will not cross.

All he wants is for them to call him brother all his life, even if they all grow away from him and forget that they once loved him.

It's hard to feel that he deserves anything; but if he keeps on being a good soldier, maybe that will be enough. He doesn't think he could bear it if it wasn't.

"I just – you said _nothing_ ," Aramis continues; looking at the floor, as if he's talking to himself and not Athos at all. "All this time and not a word."

"It was my business," Athos replies quietly. "I didn't want to involve you."

"We were already involved," Aramis shoots back. "So will you at least do me the courtesy of telling me everything?"

Athos hesitates.

Surely it's all come out now.

_Not everything._

"I should have died instead of Thomas," Athos says at last, letting the last piece fall from his fingers, the last defence from his ravaged heart.

"Maybe you should have," Aramis replies; so baldly that Athos is surprised to find it hurts, even though he believes nothing less.

"But you didn't," Aramis goes on, before the pain really has a chance to register. "You had no choice in the matter. And you can continue to run yourself ragged over it until it kills you, or you can try and come to terms with your own powerlessness. She's not what's important here, what's important is accepting the things you can't change."

 _He's underestimating her_ , Athos thinks; and the idea of it is suddenly terrifying, hard and cold in his chest.

"Of course she's important!" he objects, before he can stop himself. "We don't know what she knows."   

He wants to take it back, but it's too late; Aramis opens his mouth – and then stops, closing it again as he realises the implications of what Athos has just said.

"That's why you've been keeping your distance, is it?" he asks instead, deceptively calm; something like pity in his voice, which Athos isn't sure he can stand. "In case she knows about us?"

He doesn't want to say yes, but it would be futile to lie; and as the seconds pass, his silence is confirmation.

"Well, we're going to bring her down," Aramis says, slowly enunciating every word as if to a child, as if it's that simple. "We'll get to her before she gets to us – and you should know, seeing as the plan's mostly yours.

"We'll win, and then even if she does know something – which I doubt, or she'd have used it – well, she won't be able to touch us then."

"What if we _don't_?" Athos half-whispers, weakened enough that he just can't keep his thoughts inside any longer.

"Then we'll die together," Aramis replies, fire in his eyes, "and I will kiss you on the gallows."

Athos has reached out a hand before he even realises; and he expects so strongly that Aramis will reach for him too and they will meet in the middle that when he realises Aramis is looking at his hand and not moving, a lump forms in his throat and he can't quite see straight for a moment.

"I can't," Aramis mutters, hand in his hair. "It's – too little, too late."

Athos snatches his hand back as if he's been burned, looking anywhere but at Aramis' face. Closing his eyes for a moment so that he doesn't have to look at him, because he's apparently lost all remnants of dignity tonight.

"We've been waiting, for _years_ ," Aramis continues; and Athos can feel Aramis' eyes on him, though he can't look up yet, he isn't strong enough.

"We thought that if we just gave you space, and time, that things would get better. And I almost thought it was working – until this happened. And I realised you still can't live with yourself.

"I can't stand this any more, Athos. _Porthos_ can't stand it. And I have to protect him."

"I understand," Athos whispers, barely able to trust his voice.

He has expected this for – not even months, but years, so why does he still feel as if he's in freefall?

"No – for fuck's sake, this is exactly what I mean!" Aramis snarls – and Athos' head snaps back up in shock. " _Fight_ for us. I believe we can be happy, with what we have, but we all have to choose that happiness. And your problems are _not_ your own business, they started being our business when they followed you into our bed."

"I'm sorry," Athos mutters, gripping the neck of the bottle so hard he half-expects it to shatter.

"I'm not," Aramis retorts. "I'd do none of it differently."

Athos takes a deep drink in the silence that follows – too deep, and he has to work hard to suppress a cough.

"I don't want you to come around again until you're prepared to let us in," Aramis says, not quite looking at Athos any more. "I don't expect you to change overnight, but what I want is for you to talk to us, let us try and help you, and not shut yourself off every time you have a bad day. And if you won't do it for yourself, do it for us. Do it for _Porthos_."

Athos spreads his hands in front of him. "This is…" he starts, then trails off, not quite wanting to give voice to it.

_This is just what it is. Who I am._

"Bullshit," Aramis shoots back, as surely as if he'd finished the thought. "This is who you _choose_ to be. What would you do if one of your men was wounded, hmm?"

The non-sequitur throws him completely. "Treat him," Athos replies in confusion. "Clean the wound, sew it up."

"Right," Aramis replies, triumphant. "Well, the way I see it, the wound's in your mind, and you're leaving it to fester."

_A wound._

What if the thoughts, the pain, the confusion, are this wound, and not him at all?

He realises he is staring.

"We've both seen it in our comrades," Aramis says gently, "and I felt it after Savoy. I thought I should be dead, or I should have saved them, not that I should have lived when they died. You've known so many of our brothers be the same, and I've seen what you've done for them – and you never once thought that maybe you were wounded too?"

He can't think for a moment; everything coming up blank.

_Wounded._

He doesn't know if he can believe it.

"Your secret's out now, and we couldn't care less," Aramis finishes; and Athos isn't sure whether Aramis really believes that, or if he thinks Athos is stupid enough to believe it of him.

"Couldn't you?" Athos asks, before he can stop himself.

"Fuck you," Aramis snarls suddenly, the gentleness falling from his face in an instant to be replace by something hard – _wounded_ , Athos realises with a lurch of guilt. "Come back when you're willing to show us the consideration we deserve."

Aramis slams the door shut on his way out.

 _He_ has wounded him, Athos thinks, alone in the sudden silence of the room. He has never stopped; this just another in a long line of failures, dating back to when Tom died.

It's only when he suddenly can't breathe that Athos realises he's crying.

* * *

_Wounded_ , he repeats in his mind, as if saying the word over and over will make it make sense _._

_Wounded, wounded, wounded._

He is wounded; and so he wounds everyone around him in turn.

But there is no room for any of this now, not when they have a mission to complete. A queen to take, and a player to bring to his knees.

Sitting alone, half-freezing in his chair with the shutters banging in the wind, Athos decides that they will prevail. That he will believe in them, in Aramis and Porthos, d'Artagnan and Tréville; even if that means he has to believe in himself.

She thought to use him like this, he sees that now. That her plans all hinge on his secrecy, his shame over what he'd done.

She had not reckoned with the fact that he is a soldier now – just like her, she'd said, but not like her at all. He is fairly sure she and Richelieu have no loyalty to each other, only mutual need; he, by contrast, is only worth what he can give his King.

While he had expected this service to cost him his life, and not his friends, it is still no choice at all.

He will defeat her – not for himself, but because it is his duty – and then there will truly be nothing left.

Even if Aramis is right, and there is a wound inside him, not all wounds can be healed.

Perhaps that honourable death he sought all those years ago will finally be waiting round the corner.


	5. King

#### Paris; November-December 1630

_The king is dead._

_Long live the king._

He feels the weight of her locket still in his hand long after he has let it fall into the dirt.

The others are good enough to let him go; d'Artagnan no doubt thinking only of Madame Bonacieux, and he pretends he doesn't see Aramis' hand on Porthos' arm, holding him back.

He'd become so used to thinking of her as an enemy, as a force to be vanquished, that he had almost forgotten she is just a woman.

A clever woman, and dangerous; but no less damaged than he is, no less deluded.

As much a casualty of their marriage.

She said there could be no peace for either of them, but he is not sure he believes her.

If he had killed her, he would always carry her with him – the last five years have been proof of that.

Instead she has the chance to start again, and to remake herself anew, just as he is finally ready to do himself.

His room is dank and stuffy, and even though it's near-freezing he opens his shutters wide, letting in the daylight.

It takes him longer than it should to gather up the empty bottles and stack them in a crate in the hallway, ready to sell back to the winemaker.

It's been too long since he did this, and he'll need another crate.

He strips his blankets, balls up his dirty linens, everything that needs to go to the washerwoman. He'll dust later, sweep the floor; sell or give away everything that reminds him of her. Everything but his most well-loved books, his father's sword, his mother's crucifix. His brother's brooch, that had fastened his travelling cloak.

Thomas will never come back to him; and he has always known that really, in his mind if not his heart, but perhaps now he can finally begin to accept it.

He hears d'Artagnan's voice again in his head: _God saw you doubted, and He granted you redemption._

He hasn't undone his failures – he never can – but he has learned enough not to repeat them, at least. He supposes that's all he can ask for.

Now that part of him is gone, he just needs to decide what's left.

* * *

He makes several discreet enquiries, but learns nothing.

Still. Naïve or hopeful, he believes she is truly gone from Paris. He does not feel her eyes on him any more, does not see her around every corner. There is certainly nothing left for her here, now that she is a wanted woman once more.

Now he could lie with Porthos and Aramis again, without fear; could stand in the rays of their happiness and drink it in, as though it were his own.

He does not.

He could not really say why; only knows that on some level, it is not what he wants.

Instead, he drinks, slowly, less and less. Wakes feeling sick and shaky, at first, but grits his teeth through the tremors and the sweats and the stench until one day he turns an unseen corner and wakes fitter, fresher than he remembers being for years. Lighter on his feet, quicker to draw.

Cautiously optimistic.

He watches Porthos and Aramis leave together of an evening; not bothering to try and hide it from him, but extending no invitation. It doesn't hurt.

Instead he is learning who he is, now that drinking is no longer its own pastime.

He finds he has a lot of time.

He reads Descartes for the first time; re-reads Seneca, struggles through _The Divine Comedy_ in the original Italian, although that's almost enough to bring back his headaches by itself. It's good to _think_ again, though, really think. He can't remember the last time he read for pleasure.

He trains harder too, sparring with men whose names he should have learned long ago. Seeing what he can learn from them, even when his skill is considerably the greater. He spars over and over again with d'Artagnan, and feels a flush of pride the first time he loses his footing, slips and lands on his back in the dirt, the point of d'Artagnan's sword resting at his throat.

After debating with himself for nearly a week, he goes to confession for the first time since he came to Paris, in a small church in the northwest corner of the city where nobody knows him. It's his third Mass before the words finally come, but when they do he gets a whole rosary in penance, and a compassion he can almost accept.

When he takes the host on his tongue after so long, another weight falls away from his heart.

Some nights he still drinks more than he should, and feels all the worse for it; but he realises after the fourth or fifth time that his body's starting to reject the drug on which it relied for so many years. After that it becomes easier to take his wine watered, and to walk the night-time streets whenever the urge is too strong.

Tréville notices he's different, and starts asking for his input on strategic matters, even those concerning His Majesty. Athos wonders if he's slowly being groomed for command, and decides he doesn't mind; that for the first time he feels as if he could do it justice one day, though not quite as if he deserves it.

He even dips a toe into the waters of society, attending a few salons at the home of Madame de Chevreuse – before she catches his eye one too many times and he realises that though she's clearly beautiful, that's very much not what he wants.

After that he sticks to reading and fighting, both of which are considerably simpler.

He lies with d'Artagnan once, as November turns to December; and while he appreciates the gesture, and the pleasure, he can tell d'Artagnan's heart is still with Madame Bonacieux, and he decides he doesn't mind.

"You're not with them any more, are you?" d'Artagnan asks, as he learns over to pull on his boots.

"No," Athos replies, putting his shirt back on. "Not… only once, since you left."

D'Artagnan looks at him searchingly for a moment, already older and wiser than Athos remembers him, even though they see each other every day.

"They stood by you," he says at last, re-buckling his sword belt. Not saying Athos is an idiot, though he's no doubt thinking it. "They do every day. We're yours, all of us. Do you doubt that?"

"No," he replies, shrugging his doublet on, leaning over on impulse to press a kiss to the corner of d'Artagnan's mouth. "I know it."

He would put his life in their hands without a second thought.

Is his heart so different?

He has never stopped thinking of them, throughout – warm, half-waking dreams that leave him hard and wanting night after night, as though something vague and blurry he's been gazing on for years has suddenly come into sharp relief; and as the weeks pass, the feeling only gets harder to ignore.

He hasn't been like this since – well.

He reminds himself firmly that he's not who he was back then, not at all.

It's the absence of drink, perhaps, or the absence of a familiar weight around his neck; though he's not sure he cares what the cause is, it's not as if knowing will end this bewitchment. He's a slave to his memories, lying on his back in his narrow bed with his eyes on the ceiling, stroking himself to completion time after time to thoughts of Aramis' skilled mouth, Porthos' firm grip, the memory of their sweat-sheened bodies writhing together in the candlelight.

Soon his thoughts of them start to spill over from the privacy of his desire and bleed into all his waking moments; which he supposes is fitting, when they're a part of everything he is.

Aramis' pure joy in pleasure, his focus and attention, never taking more from him than Athos can bear to give. Porthos' diligent care, his gentle strength, bringing him back to himself whenever he's lost.

He feels like he knows them inside out; yet not at all.

More likely, it's himself he does not know.

He starts to watch them, as they stand beside him day after day, wanting to make up for everything he's missed in his years of selfish preoccupation. The quiet moments are always his favourites, when they're both relaxed and without care; and he observes with a quiet, dedicated focus, as if he would relearn the spark of Aramis' bright eyes and the creasing of his laughter lines, the trick of his particular ease of being; the sound of Porthos' easy laughter and the gravity of his soft smile, so rarely turned towards Athos these days.

He has never trusted his own desires.

They led him to _her_ , after all.

But when what he starts to yearn for is not just pleasure but intimacy – their bodies pressed together in sleep, waking intertwined; _knowing_ each other again, as parts of a whole – he knows he's as ready as he's going to be.

* * *

His moment comes three days later; at their second tavern of the night, after they've been kicked out of The Fox for an ill-advised brawl with a group of mercenaries who objected (quite reasonably, Athos concedes) to Porthos' rather sloppy cheating at cards.

D'Artagnan is the first to slope off to bed, wearing his melancholy like a cloak that Athos wishes he could pull from the boy's shoulders, if only it were that simple; and it's a matter of minutes before Porthos and Aramis give each other a look filled with meaning, that he knows all too well.

A look that he's at least still privy to, even if it no longer includes him.

"We'll be retiring too, then," Aramis says lightly, as they both scrape their chairs back to stand.

"Wait," Athos blurts out, before he can decide he should have held his tongue.

They both look at him, in unconcealed surprise; and after what he knows has been weeks but feels like months, the force of their full attention on him is overwhelming, and whatever he would have said next jams in his throat.

Cowardly as ever, he wishes despite himself that he could take it back, make excuses, say it's nothing; but he knows they have understood already, he can read it in their faces.

And then Aramis smiles – _really_ smiles, not the cold and charming mask that Athos has seen so much of in the last months, but an expression that makes his eyes come alive.

He holds out a hand.

"Or you could come with us," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world; as if what Athos is asking of them is not so onerous after all.

* * *

There's a glass of wine at his right hand, half-drunk; Porthos' hand curls gently around his left, as if afraid that exerting too much pressure will drive him away. He's in his shirtsleeves, Aramis massaging tension from his shoulder muscles with expert fingers. Both of them trying not to show that they're waiting for him to speak.

Now that the moment has come, he has no idea what to say.

He remembers Aramis' words, from months ago: _just_ _let us in._

He clears his throat.

"I…"

_I, what?_

"…I don't know what I feel, yet."

There's too much of it still, echoes of the familiar pain and confusion all jostling together in his mind until there's nothing at all that he can pinpoint, say _this is what it is._

In the confessional, at least, he had a story to tell – or half of one. (He left out the part where they lay together. He cannot bring himself to care.)

Porthos and Aramis already know his story; the bones of it, anyway, though they do not know its flesh.

Perhaps it does not matter, to them either. Perhaps all they need from him now is his present.

Aramis' hands move under his shirt collar, thumbs pressing just under the nub of his spine; his touch making Athos feel strangely light-headed.

Porthos' grip tightens in his.

"You said I was wounded. Aramis." He stumbles over the words, but makes himself speak them. "A lot of things – made sense then, that hadn't before. But I still ask myself why you'd… want someone like that."

"Because I have faith that you'll heal," Aramis replies easily, hands stilling on Athos' shoulders. "And we've both been watching it happen. Ever since you let her go."

It's the truth; but it's not the _entire_ truth, is it?

"And yet I wonder if you'd be better off without me," he mumbles, staring at his glass.

"You idiot," Porthos growls, the heat in his voice a sudden shock, "we wouldn't be _whole_ without you. Can't you see that?"

_I'm trying to_ , he thinks. _I really am._

How easy it would be to drain his glass, to pour another and drink that too, straight down. How much easier it would make everything.

It's almost a pity that he is not that man any more.

Instead he grits his teeth for a moment, before pressing on.

"I thought – that you would forget me, in time," he says, reaching out to grip the stem of his glass, tracing his fingers over the imperfections there. "That you would be happy with each other."

The words sound absurd, spoken aloud; perhaps he doesn't even believe them himself any more. Just an old habit, then.

Or an old wound.

"Perhaps we would," Aramis replies, as smoothly as if Athos is talking sense; and he sees Porthos' sharp glare out of the corner of his eye, though he does not dare to look up. "But why should we, when we can all be happy together?"

He presses his thumbs firmly into Athos' knotted muscles again; and Athos realises with a surge of nameless emotion that he never wants Aramis to stop.

That the touch of another person is something so basic as food: he's so used to starving for it that he always forgets it is something his body even needs, that the feeling of being sated has become alien to him.

Since he stopped being a drunk, he has learned how to eat again.

Perhaps he can relearn this too.

He covers Aramis' hand with his free one.

"When it gets bad," he says, "I don't want you to see it," though the words seem wholly inadequate to convey the depths to which he sinks.

"We always do," Aramis replies simply, "and we have for years. You might not tell us, but we know."

"So you might as well let us help," Porthos picks up, rubbing his thumb soothingly across Athos' knuckles.

He'd expected the shame he feels, to be so transparent to them.

He hadn't expected it to be somehow freeing.

"Did we mess this up?" Aramis asks, voice even, only the tightening of his grip on Athos' shoulders betraying the seriousness of the question. "Did we leave you to your own devices when we should have been there?"

Athos swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "No. I didn't want – I wouldn't have let you."

"And now?"

If they still believe him worthy, after all that's happened – well, perhaps they are not so wrong as he'd thought.

"You know everything now."

It's all he can bring himself to say; and he hopes it will be enough.

He'd expected Aramis to make the first move, but it's Porthos who squeezes his hand to draw his attention, eyes serious and hopeful as he asks, "Will you come to bed?"

"Gladly," Athos replies, tongue suddenly thick in his mouth.

Unaccountably nervous, as if they have not done this together scores of times before.

This time it's different, though, for him at least.

It's a matter of steps through the doorway and over to the bed, but it's as if the atmosphere charges with every step he takes, until Athos feels like he's burning up.

They stop him just at the edge of the bed, where he's turned to the side, and pulled back into Aramis' waiting arms.

"Put your hands on my hips," Aramis murmurs in his ear, "and let us touch you," as Porthos moves in front of him and cups his jaw, eyes intent.

Even though Athos is still near-fully dressed, he feels as though he couldn't be more exposed if he was lying naked on his back with his legs spread; with Aramis working expert thumbs into his knotted shoulder muscles as Porthos covers Athos' hand where it rests on Aramis' waist, the other hand winding its way into Athos' hair.

The force of their attention alone is stripping him raw, overwhelming him, and it's too much; he needs something to lose himself in, just a little, he needs –

"Kiss me," he breathes against Porthos' hand, pressing his lips to the centre of his palm. "Please –"

And Porthos doesn't need telling twice, surging forward and pressing his body flush against Athos', rocking him back into Aramis, who groans harshly in Athos' ear – hard already, Athos notes dimly, and he's as hard as a virgin himself, aching, half-winded with desire – and he's being kissed as he hasn't been since that night in the woods, as if Porthos would kiss the air from his lungs and the darkness from his mind, relearn him from the inside out.

It must be minutes before Porthos leans back, and Athos feels two pairs of hands turn him in place until Aramis' lips find his: every bit as confident and sure as Athos remembers, his passion a needlepoint where Porthos' is a blow, piercing his chest somewhere below his heart and letting more of his blackness out, to dissolve in the air around them.

There are hands peeling his shirt from his waistband, and he gasps when it's pulled over his head, feeling a sudden shock of cold as he loses the heat of their bodies against him.

They move back immediately, though, cleaving to him front and back; and he wants nothing more than to feel their bare skin on his instead of the linen of their shirts, but doesn't quite trust himself to ask, just lets Aramis take his hands and place them back on his hips as he looks into Aramis' face, makes himself keep looking, even though it feels like he's looking into the sun.

Porthos is kissing along Athos' shoulder, the nape of his neck, and down the notches of his spine, as if he would undo every link holding him together, the contrast between the softness of his lips and the scratch of his beard as exquisite as a poem; while Aramis tugs his hair gently back to kiss down the line of Athos' neck, to the hollow at the base of his throat which seems to have a direct line to the urgent pulsing in his cock; and he barely stops himself from rubbing needily against Aramis' thigh in response, all his self-discipline unravelling under their hands.

"Please," he gasps as Aramis presses his thigh forward in response, sparking white-hot; he doesn't want it just yet, not like this, wants to feel their bare skin against him first.

"Get undressed," he manages to say, half-request and half-command; reaching behind him for Porthos and finding a fistful of shirt, as Porthos moves to embrace him once again.

"You undress us," Aramis retorts, opening Athos' breeches with an efficiency that leaves him gaping – how is Aramis still so together? – before turning him back into Porthos' waiting arms.

From that moment it's a medley of fumbling as everyone's clothes come off, Athos turning round and back between them until he's almost dizzy with it, stripping and being stripped until they're all three down to their smallclothes; and no sooner has the last boot come off than Porthos wraps his arms round Athos' middle and pulls him to the bed, in one fluid motion.

He's caught off-guard, and panic spikes in his chest just as his body hits the mattress with a thud, air pushed sharply from his lungs, and for a moment he can't draw breath; but both their hands are on him before he can spiral, smoothing reassuringly over the planes of his back and chest, pressing gentle kisses to his skin.

Porthos catches one of Athos' hands in his and presses it over his steady heart, as Aramis brings the other to rest, entwining skittish fingers with his own elegant ones.

"Shh, darling," Porthos croons in his ear, kissing the edge of his jaw. "It's all good. We've got you."

They have, haven't they?

"This is what I don't want anyone to see," he mumbles against Porthos neck, remembering his resolve; feeling the shame flush through him like a fever all the same.

"We're not anyone," Aramis replies easily, leaning over him to kiss Athos' earlobe with a loud smack – which makes him cringe a little, but seems to dissipate some of the rushing in his ears. "We're just us."

"I thought I was better," Athos makes himself say, reassured by the fact that they're still here. Still holding him, still grounding him with their touches, even though he's still a failure.

Not _is_ , he reminds himself; _feels like_ a failure, which is not the same at all.

"You _are_ ," Porthos replies, with a conviction Athos wants to feel himself some day, squeezing Athos' hand where it rests over his heart. "You're so much better already."

"I agree," Aramis comments, his mouth hot on Athos' shoulder blade. "What wound ever healed in a day?"

Athos squeezes both their hands in silent gratitude, closing his eyes and taking a shuddering breath; and as he starts to calm again the desire builds in him in turn, until it's pulsing like a mad thing, thundering through his body with such force that he nearly panics all over again.

Even when he's lain with them before, he's never felt anything like it.

He barely recognises it as his.

He must have been damping his urges down for years, never allowing himself to really desire, to really _want_ ; and it's only now that he realises he's not quite as damaged as he thought.

Not when he can feel _so much_ , so sharp and bright and not at all doubting any more. Not just desire but love, for the both of them, that he's spent so many years denying, pushing away.

Love that his grief had left no room for; but with her gone, something else can finally take that place.

Their hands are all over him again, but still only above the waist; and Athos still has just enough restraint to stop himself slamming his hips against Porthos, rutting against him shamelessly.

He half-expects that they're waiting for him to tell them, as they so often have before; but then Porthos slides a hand into his hair and says, "Let us touch you," voice low and rasping with want.

Aramis pushes his erection against the cleft of Athos' arse, gasping shakily against the nape of his neck, as though he just can't help himself.

"Yes. Yes," he replies, half-desperate already, as both their hands settle at his waistband. Porthos makes short work of the lacing, a gentle brush of his hand against Athos' cock shooting along his nerves like wildfire, a guttural groan pushing its way up through his throat.

He shifts his hips up as they wrestle his smallclothes down and off; and he's pulled straight back against Aramis' chest, lying half on his side and half on his back with Aramis' head on his shoulder as Porthos leans over to kiss them both, before resting his head against Athos' as two hands wrap round his cock, grips steady and sure.

It's overwhelming, like he's sparking, like he's aflame; and he reaches for them instinctively even though they couldn't be any closer, one hand curling into Aramis' where it rests on his chest, the other on Porthos' neck as the range of his senses shrinks to just their hands on him, their harsh breathing, his own uncontrollable gasps and pants; Aramis murmuring endearments into his ear, a mix of French and Spanish and Latin, of the filthy and the tender; and he can't hold on, he _can't_ , and he just has time to squeeze their hands in warning before he whites out, with both their names crowding for position on his tongue.

When the world slowly rights itself again, Porthos is already wiping his hand and Athos' cock gently clean, as Aramis brushes the sweat from his brow; and he starts to shiver, suddenly freezing cold.

"Under the covers with you," Porthos orders with a smile; and as he pulls the blankets around him, Porthos and Aramis stand at opposite sides of the bed and peel off their smallclothes – still hard – and Athos looks between them with soft, heavy eyes, wanting to watch them both at once.

He feels slack-limbed and sated; body heavy but his heart somehow lighter, as though some tightness in him has worked itself loose and washed away in the wave of his orgasm, and he doesn't miss it at all.

In fact, he feels as light as the moment he first saw for himself that d'Artagnan was alright after Athos had put a bullet in his side.

The memory brings an echo of that old dread with it; but he is strong enough to push it away.

The mattress shifts as Porthos and Aramis climb in beside him, pressing chilly flesh against him, though he feels their cocks still hard and hot against his hips. They make no move to touch themselves, or have him touch them, just putting their arms gently around him as if they're happy to sleep like this, unsatisfied.

That's not what he wants, though; he wants to see them. Wants to see them _together,_ he realises with a lurch; wants to see if he can watch them touch each other and still believe that he has a place here.

"Touch each other," he instructs, in a voice that wavers.

"Gladly," Aramis smirks, kissing him on the cheek; before rolling over his body to straddle Porthos' thighs, leaning forward to kiss him, deep and familiar.

He has to trust that they're happier with him than without him.

He trusts them with his life; why not with this?

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ not to have understood before.

_That's the wound too, though, isn't it?_

"I –" he starts, cut off by Porthos' groan as Aramis braces himself above him, and reaches down between their bodies.

They don't want to hear even more of his idiocy, do they? Especially not at a time like this.

"What is it?" Porthos asks gently, both their eyes suddenly on him, full of concern. He didn't realise they'd heard him.

It's on his lips to say _nothing_ before he remembers he won't do that any more.

"I'm sorry," he forces himself to say, even though the words are like ash in his mouth. "I should have trusted that you meant it. That you – wanted me."

"Athos." Aramis leans over to brush a kiss against his jaw, expression impossibly tender, as Porthos takes his hand in his. "It's already forgiven."

He curls into Porthos' side, never letting go of his hand, and puts his other hand on Aramis' thigh; watches the tendons in Aramis' forearms as he braces himself against the mattress, both their faces turning slack with pleasure as Aramis strokes them together, heavy-lidded eyes looking as often to him as to each other, never letting him feel forgotten.

They both turn their heads to kiss him as they come; Porthos first, Aramis only a second after.

As Aramis reaches for the cloth to wipe both their spendings from Porthos' stomach, Athos allows his eyes to fall closed at last, finding there's nothing he wishes to say.

There is nothing that needs to be said; they know it all already.

He's exhausted from his own desire, and is nearly asleep already when Aramis presses himself along his back and whispers, "Stay."

"Of course," Athos replies, in slow confusion – it's hardly like he's going anywhere.

"Not just tonight," Aramis replies, sounding suddenly uncertain. "I mean, longer. Porthos has barely been home in weeks. And I'd like to have you here too."

"I…" Athos frowns, too sleepy to be anything but confused.

He hadn't expected this; had never even thought of it.

"I was due to marry when I was young," Aramis continues, out of nowhere; voice smaller than Athos remembers hearing it in a long time, and he blinks himself awake, reaches for Aramis' hand. "The woman I thought would be my wife was lost to me, and ever since, I longed for a family of my own. It took me far longer than it should have to realise I should make my life with the people I love already."

"And for my part," Porthos replies, "this is the only family I've ever had."

"And I would never marry again," Athos replies, after a moment. "So – I'm glad it's you."

Aramis squeezes his hand. "So you'll stay?"

Athos knows, logically, that tomorrow will be a new day, and that some days are better than others; that's always been true, and no less so since she left. He knows that he can't promise he'll never need to be alone, or that he'll always feel he deserves to be touched.

But he's ready, finally, to fight for them, to carve out his own private corner of happiness; and that is what makes all the difference.

"I'll try," he replies, with the gravity of a promise.

Aramis kisses the nape of his neck, before shifting against him and wrapping an arm around his waist. "That's all we ask."

Closing his eyes again, Athos lets himself drift into peaceful sleep to the sound of their steady breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the fourth and final story in the _All of Us_ series. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, given kudos and in any way shown their appreciation for these stories. I do it for you guys, and I'm thoroughly grateful.
> 
> Special thanks goes to [sevenswells](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells) for her invaluable local and historical knowledge.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [That, My Friend, Is a Lion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622684) by [doomcanary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary)




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